



.4-°- 












T* A 



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PARIS 



THE PARISIANS 



IN 1835. 



/ 
BY FRANCES TROLLOPE, 

AUTHOR OF " DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS," 
"THE REFUGEE IN AMERICA," &c. 



Le pire des ^ats, o'est l'6tat populaire.— Cornbille. 




_ N E W-Y R K ; 

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, 

NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET. 

1836. 



-\] ^' ' ' 



PREFACE. 



From the very beginning of reading and writing — nay, doubt- 
less from the very beginning of speaking, — Truth, immortal 
Truth, has been the object of ostensible worship to all who read 
and to all who listen ; and, in the abstract, it is unquestionably 
held in sincere veneration by all : yet, in the detail of every-day 
practice, the majority of mankind often hate it, and are seen to 
bear pain, disappointment, and sorrow more patiently than its hon- 
oured voice when it echoes not their own opinion. 

Preconceived notions generally take a much firmer hold of the 
mind than can be obtained by any statement, however clear and 
plain, which tends to overthrow them ; and if it happen that these 
are connected with an honest intention of being right, they are 
often mistaken for principles ; — in which case the attempt to 
shake them is considered not merely as a folly, but a sin. 

With this conviction strongly impressed upon my mind, it 
requires some moral courage to publish these volumes ; for they 
are written in conformity to the opinions of ... . perhaps none, — 
and, worse still, there is that in them which may be considered as 
contradictory to my own. Had I, before my late visit to Paris, 
written a book for the purpose of advocating the opinions I enter- 
tained on the state of the country, it certainly would have been 
composed in a spirit by no means according in all points with 
that manifested in the following pages : but, while profiting by 
every occasion which permitted me to mix with distinguished 
people of all parties, I learned much of which I was — in com- 
mon, I suspect, with many others — very profoundly ignorant. I 
found good where I looked for mischief— strength where I antici- 
pated weakness— and the watchful wisdom of cautious legislators, 
most usefully at work for the welfare of their country, instead of 
the crude vagaries of a revolutionary government, active only in 
leading blindfold the deluded populace who trusted to them. 



3tVl PREFACE. 

The result of this was, first a wavering, and then a change of 
opinion, — not as to the immutable laws which should regulate 
hereditary succession, or the regret that it should ever have been 
deemed expedient to violate them — but as to the wisest way in 
which the French nation, situated as it actually is, can be gov- 
erned, so as best to repair the grievous injuries left by former 
convulsions, and most effectually to guard against a recurrence of 
them in future. 

That the present policy of France keeps these objects steadily 
in view, and that much wisdom and courage is at work to ad- 
vance them, cannot be doubted ; and those most anxious to advo- 
cate the sacred cause of well-ordered authority among all the 
nations of the earth should be the first to bear testimony to this 
truth. 

London, December, 1835. 



CONTENTS. 



LETTER I. 

Difficulty of giving a systematic account of what is doing in France— Pleasure of revisit- 
ing Paris after a long absence — What is changed ; what remains the same Page 25 

LETTER IL 

Absence of the English Embassy — Trial of the Lyons Prisoners — Church of the Made- 
leine — Statue of Napoleon 27 

LETTER IIL 

Slang — Les Jeunes Gens de Paris — La Jeune France — Rococo — D6cousu . . 30 

LETTER IV. 

Theatre Franqais — Mademoiselle Mars — Elmire — Charlotte Brown — Extract from s 
Sermon 32^ 

LETTER V. 

Exhibition of Living Artists at the Louvre— The Deluge — Poussin and Martin — Por- 
traits — Appearance of the Company 34 

LETTER VL 

Society — Morality — False Impressions and False Reports — Observations from a Frenchv 
man on a recent publication .3^ 

LETTER VIL 

Alarm created by the Trial of the Lyons Prisoners — Visits from a Republican and from 
a Doctrinaire : reassured by the promises of safety and protection received from the 



latter 



43 



LETTER VIIL 



Eloquence of the Pulpit— L 'Abbe CcBur— Sennon at St. Roch— Elegant Congreiration— 
Costume of the younger Clergy t . 47 

LETTER IX. 

Literature of the Revolutionary School— Its low estimation in France ... 51 

LETTER X. 

Longchamps— The " Three Hours' Agony" at St. Roch— Sermons on the Gospel of 
6ood-Fnday— Prospects of the Cathohcs—O'Connell . . . . . f 55 



XVlll CONTENTS. 

LETTER XL 

Trial-chamber at the Luxembourg — Institute — M. Mignet— Concert Musard Page 59 

LETTER XIL 

Easter-Sunday at Notre Dame — Archbishop — View of Paris — Victor Hugo — Hotel Dieu 
—Mr. Jefferson 63 

LETTER XIIL 

" Le Monomane" 66 

LETTER XIV. 

The Gardens of the Tuileries — Legitimatist — Republican — Doctnnaire — Children — 
Dress of tlie Ladies — Of the Gentlemen — Black Hair — Unrestricted Admission— An- 
ecdote 71 

LETTER XV. 

street Police — Cleaning Beds — Tinning Kettles — Building Houses — Loading Carts — 
Preparing for the Scavenger — Want of Drains — Bad Pavement — Darliness . 77 

LETTER XVL 

Preparations for the Fete du Roi — Arrival of Troops — Champs Elysees — Concert in the 
Garden of the Tuileries — Silence of the People — Fireworks .... 81 

LETTER XVIL 

Political chances — Visit from a Republican — His high spirits at the prospects before him 
— His advice to me respecting my name — Removal of the Prisoners from Ste. Pelagie 
—Review — Garde de Paris— The National Guard 86 

LETTER XVIIL 

First Day of the Trials — Much blustering, but no riot — All alarm subsided — Proposal 

for inviting Lord B m to plead at the Trial — Society — Charm of idle conversation 

— The Whisperer of good stories 91 

LETTER XIX. 

Victor Hugo — Racine 96 

LETTER XX. 

Versailles— St. Cloud 105 

LETTER XXI. 

History of the Vicomte de B —His opinions— State of France— Expediency . 110 

LETTER XXII. 

P^re Lachaise-Mourningin public— Defacing the Tomb of Abelird and Eloisa-Baron 
Munchausen— Russian Monument— Statue of Manuel ii* 



CONTENTS. XIX 

LETTER XXIII. 

Remarkable People— Distinguished People — Metaphysical Lady . . Page 117 

LETTER XXIV. 

Expedition to the Luxembourg — No admittance for Females — Portraits of " Henri" — 
Republican Costume— Quai Voltaire— Mural Inscriptions— Anecdote of Marshal Lo- 
bau — Arrest • • 122 

LETTER XXV. 

Chapelle Expiatoire — Devotees seen there— Tri-coloured flag out of place there — Flower 
Market of the Madeleine — Petites Maitresses . . . . . . . 129 

LETTER XXVI. 

Delicacy in France and in England — Causes of the difference between them . 132 

LETTER XXVII. 

Objections to quoting the names of private individuals— Impossibility of avoiding Politics 
— Parceque and Quoique — Soiree Antithetique 137 

LETTER XXVIII. 

New Publications — M. de Lamartine's " Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensees, et Paysages" 
— Tocqueville and Beaumont — New American regulation — M. Scribe — Madame Tastu 
— Reception of diiferent Writers in society 143 

LETTER XXIX. 

Sunday in Paris — Family Groups — Popular Enjoyment — Polytechnic Students — Their 
resemblance to the figure of Napoleon — Enduring attachment to the Emperor — Con- 
servative spirit of the English Schools — Sunday in the Gardens of the Tuileries — 
Religion of the Educated — Popular Opinion 147 

LETTER XXX. 

Madame Recamier — Her Morning Parties — Gerard's Picture of Corinne — Miniature of 
Madame de Stael — M. de Chateaubriand — Conversation on the degree in which the 
French language is understood by Foreigners — The necessity of speaking French 152 

LETTER XXXI. 

Exhibition of Sevres China at the Louvre— Gobelins and Beauvais Tapestry— Legiti- 
matist Father and Doctrinaire Son—Copies from the Medicean Gallery . .158 

LETTER XXXII. 

EgUse Apostolique Frangaise- Its doctrine— L' Abbe Auzou— His Sermon on " les Plai- 
sirs Populaires" 162 

LETTER XXXIII. 

Establishment for Insane Patients at Vanves— Description of the Arrangements— Eng- 
lishman — His Religious Madness . . . 168 

B2 - ■ ■ ■ 



XX CONTENTS. 



LETTER XXXIV. 

Riot at the Porte St. Martin— Prevented by a shower of Rain— The Mob in fine weather 
—How to stop Emeutes— Army of Italy— Theatre Frangais— Mademoiselle Mars in 
Henriette — Disappearance of Comedy Page 174 

LETTER XXXV. 

Soiree dansante— Young Ladies— Old Ladies— Anecdote— The Consolations of Chape- 
rones— Flirtations— Discussion upon the variations between young Married Wom- 
en m France and in England— Making love by deputy— Not likely to answer in 
England " 179 

LETTER XXXVI. 

Improvements of Paris — Introduction of Carpets and Trottoirs — Maisonnettes — Not 
likely to answer in Paris — The necessity of a Porter and Porter's Lodge — Comparative 
Expenses of France and England — Increasing Wealth of the Bourgeoisie . . 187 

LETTER XXXVII. 

Horrible Murder— La Morgue— Suicides— Vanity— Anecdote— Influence of Modern Lit- 
erature — Different afpearance of Poverty in France and England . . . 193 

LETTER XXXVIII. 

Op6ra Comique — " Cheval de Bronze" — "La Marquise" — Impossibility of playing 
Tragedy — Mrs. Siddons's Readings — Mademoiselle Mars has equal power — Laisser 
aller of the Female Performers— Dechne of Theatrical Taste among the Fashion- 
able 199 

LETTER XXXIX. 

The Abb^ de La Mennais — Cobbett — O'Connell — Napoleon — Robespierre . . 203 

LETTER XL. 

Which Party is it ranks second in the estimation of all ? — No Caricatures against the 
Exiles — Horror of a Republic 207 

LETTER XLI. 

M. Dupre — His Drawings in Greece — L'Eglise des Carmes — M. Vinchon's Picture of 
the National Convention — Leopold Robert's Fishermen — Reported cause of his Sui- 
cide — Roman Catholic Religion — Mr. Daniel O'Connell . . . . ; 212 

LETTER XLII. 

Old Maids — Rarely to be found in France — The reasons for this .... 215 

LETTER XLIII. 

Peculiar Air of Frenchwomen — Impossibility that an Englishwoman should not be known 
for such in Paris— Small Shops — Beautiful Flov/ers, and pretty arrangement of them 
— Native Grace — Disappearance of Rouge — Gray Hair — Every article dearer than in 
London— All temptations to smuggling removed . . '. . . . 221 



CONTENTS. XXI 

LETTER XLIV. 

Exclusive Soir6es — Soiree Doctrinaire — Due de Broglie — Soiree R6publicaine — Soiree 
Royaliste — Partie Imp^riale — Military Greatness — Dame de I'Empire . Page 225 

LETTER XLV. 

L'Abb^ Lacordaire — Various statements respecting him — Poetical description of Notre 
Dame — The prophecy of a Roman Catholic — Les Jeunes Gens de Paris — Their om- 
nipotence 230 

LETTER XLVL 

La Tour de Nesle 237 

LETTER XLVIL 

Palais Royal — Variety of Characters — Party of English — Restaurant — Galerie d'Orl^ans 
— Number of Loungers — Convenient abundance of Idle Men — Theatre du Vaude- 
ville 243 

LETTER XLVIIL 

Literary Conversation — Modem Novelists — Vicomte d'Arlincourt, his Portrait — Cha- 
teaubriand — Bernardin de Saint Pierre — Shakspeare — Sir Walter Scott — French fa- 
miliarity with English Authors — Miss Mitford — Miss Landon — Parisian passion for 
Novelty — Extent of general Information 249 

LETTER XLIX. 

Trial by Jury — Power of the Jury in France — Comparative insignificance of that vested 
in the Judge — Virtual Abolition of Capital Punishments — Flemish Anecdote . 254 

LETTER L. 

Enghsh Pastry-cooks— French horror of EngUsh Pastry— Unfortunate experiment upon 
a Muffin — The Citizen King ' 259 

LETTER LL 

Parisian Women — Rousseau's failure in attempting to describe them — Their great influ- 
ence in Society — Their grace in Conversation — Difficulty of growing old — Do the 
ladies of France or those of England manage it best ? 262 

LETTER LIL 

La Sainte Chapelle — Palais de Justice — Traces of the Revolution of 1830 — Unworthy 
use made of La Sainte Chapelle — Boileau — Ancient Records .... 268 

LETTER LIIL 

French ideas of England — Making love — Precipitate retreat of a young Frenchman 
— Different methods of arranging Marriages — EngUsh Divorce — English Restau- 
rans 273 



LETTER LIV. 

uence of th( 



Mixed Society— Influence of the English Clergy and their Families — Importance of their 
station in Society , 281 



XXU CONTENTS.' 

LETTER LV. 

Le Grand Opera — Its enormous Expense— Its Fashion — Its acknowledged Dulness — " La 
Jnive" — Its heavy Music — Its exceeding splendour — Beautiful management of the 
Scenery — National Music „ 286 

• LETTER LVL 

The Abbe Deguerry — His eloquence — Excursion across the water — Library of Sainte 
Genevieve — Copy-book of the Dauphin — St. Etienne du Mont — Pantheon . 292 

i * 

LETTER LVIL 

Little Suppers — Great Dinners — Affectation of Gourmandise — Evil effects of " dining 
out" — Evening Parties — Dmners in private under the name of Luncheons — Late 
Hours 296 

LETTER LVIIL 

Hopital des Enfans Trouves — Its doubtful advantages — Story of a Child left there 301 

LETTER LIX. 

Proems Monstre — Dislike of the Prisoners to the ceremony of Trial — Societe des Droits 
de I'Homme — Names given to the Sections — Kitchen and Nursery Literature — Anec- 
dote of Lagrange — Republican Law 313 

LETTER LX. 

Memoirs of M. de Chateaubriand — The Readings at L'Abbaye-aux-Bois — Account of 
these in the French Newspapers and Reviews — Morning at the Abbaye to hear a 
portion of these Memoirs — The Visit to Prague . . . - . . . .318 

LETTER LXL 

Jardin des Plantes — Not equal in beauty to our Zoological Gardens — La Salpetri- 
ere— Anecdote — Les Invahdes — Difficulty of finding English Colours there — The 
Dome 327 

LETTER LXIL 

Expedition to Montmorency — Rendezvous in the Passage Delorme — St. Denis— Tomb 
prepared for Napoleon — The Hermitage — Diner sur I'herbe .... 332 

LETTER LXIIL 

George Sand . 340 

LETTER LXIV. 

" Angelo Tyran de Padoue" — Burlesque at the Theatre du Vaudeville — Mademoiselle 
Mars — Madame Dorval — Epigram 344 

^ LETTER LXV. » 

Boulevard des Italiens — Tortoni's — Thunder-storm — Church of the Madeleine — Mrs. 
Butler's " Journal" 354 



CONTENTS. XXni 



LETTER LXVI. 

1 pleasant Party — Discussion between an Englishman and a Frenchman — National Pe-' 
culiarities . . 359 

LETTER LXVIL 

Chamber of Deputies — Punishment of Journalists — Institute for the Encouragement of 
Industry — Men of Genius 364 

LETTER LXVIIL 

Walk to the Marche des Innocens — Escape of a Canary-bird — A Street Orator — Bury- 
ing-place of the Victims of July 369 

LETTER LXIX. 

A Philosophical Spectator — Collection of Baron Sylvestre — Hotel des Monnaies — Mu- 
see d'Artillerie 374 

LETTER LXX. 

Concert in the Champs Elysees — Horticultural Exhibition — Forced Flowers — Republi- 
can Hats — CarUst Hats — Juste-Milieu Hats — Popular Funeral . . . 380 

LETTER LXXL 

Minor French Novelists 385 

LETTER LXXIL 

Breaking up of the Paris season — Soiree at Madame R^camier's — Recitation — Storm — 
Disappointment — Atonement — Farewell 391 

POSTSCRIPT 395 



EMBELLISHMENTS. 



Louvre Page 34 

Morning at the Tuileries Gardens 73 

"ProPatria" 90 

" Ce soir, a la Porte St. Martin." — "J'y serai." 128 

Tuileries Gardens (on Sunday) 147 

Porte St. Martin 175 

Soiree 225 

Le Roi Citoyen 260 

Pretres de la Jeune France 292 

Boulevard des Italiens 355 

" Via les restes de notre Revolution de Juillet" . . . . . . . 372 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS 

IN 1835. 



LETTER I. 



Difficulty of giving a systematic account of what is doing in France — Pleasure of revisit 
ing Paris after a long absence— What is changed ; what remains the same. 

Paris, 11th April, 1835. 
My dear Friend, t; 

In visiting Paris, it certainly was my intention to describe in 
print what I saw and heard there ; and to do this as faithfully as 
possible, I proposed to continue my old habit of noting in my 
journal all things, great and small, in which I took an interest. 
But the task frightens me. I have been here but a few days, and 
I already find myself preaching and prosing at much greater 
length than I approve : I already feel that I am involved in such 
a mizmaze of interesting subjects, that to give any thing like an 
orderly and well-arranged digest of them, would beguile me into 
attempting a work greatly beyond my power to execute. 

The very most 1 can hope to do will be but to " skim lightly 
over the surface of things ;" and in addressing myself to you, I 
shall feel less as if I were about to be guilty of the presumption 
of writing " a work on France," than if I threw my notes into a 
less familiar form. I will then discourse to you, as well as I may, 
of such things as leave the deepest impression among the thou- 
sand sights and sounds in the midst of which I am now placed. 
Should it be our will hereafter that these letters pass from your 
hands into those of the public, I trust that nobody will be so un- 
merciful as to expect that they shall make them acquainted with 
every thing past, present, and to come, " respecting the destinies 
of this remarkable country." 

It must indeed be a bold pen that attempts to write of " Young 
France," as it is at present the fashion to call it, with any thing like 
a reasonable degree of order and precision, while still surrounded 
by all the startling novelties she has to show. To reason of what 
she has done, what she is doing, and — more difficult still — of what 
she is about to do, would require a steadier head than most per-. 



26 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

sons can command, while yet turning and twisting in all directions 
to see what this Young France looks like. 

In truth, I am disposed to believe, that whatever 1 write about, 
it will be much in the style of the old conundrum — 

■' I saw a comet rain down hail ' 
I saw a cloud" &c. 

And here you will remember, that though the things seen are stated 
in the most simple and veracious manner, much of the meaning is 
occult, depending altogether upon the stopping or pointing of the 
narrative. This stopping or pointing I must leave to you, or any 
other readers I may happen to have, and confine myself to the 
plain statement of " I saw ;" for though it is sufficiently easy to 
see and to hear, I feel extremely doubtful if I shall always be able 
to understand. 

It is just seven years and seven months since I last visited the 
capital of the " Great Nation." The interval is a long one, as a 
portion of human life ; but how short does it appear, when the 
events that it has brought forth are contemplated ! I left the white 
banner of France floating gayly over her palaces, and I find it torn 
down and trampled in the dust. The renowned lilies, for so many 
ages the symbol of chivalric bravery, are everywhere erased ; and 
it should seem that the once proud shield of St. Louis is soiled, 
broken, and reversed for ever. 

But all this was old. France is grown young again ; and I am 
assured that, according to the present condition of human judg- 
ment, every thing is exactly as it should be. Knighthood, glory, 
shields, banners, faith, loyalty, and the like, are gone out of fashion; 
and they say it is only necessary to look about me a little, to per- 
ceive how remarkably well the present race of Frenchmen can do 
without them ; — an occupation, it is added, which I shall find 
much more profitable and amusing than lamenting over the mould- 
ering records of their ancient greatness. 

The good sense of this remonstrance is so evident, that I am 
determined henceforth to profit by it ; remembering, moreover, 
that, as an Englishwoman, I have certainly no particular call to 
mourn over the fading honours of my country's rival. So in 
future I shall turn my eyes as much as I can from the tri-coloured 
flag — (those three stripes are terribly false heraldry) — and only 
think of amusing myself; a business never performed anywhere 
with so much ease as at Paris. 

Since I last saw it, I have journeyed half round the globe ; but 
nothing I have met in all my wanderings has sufficed to damp the 
pleasure with which I enter again this gay, bright, noisy, restless 
city, — this city of the living, as beyond all others it may be justly 
called. 

And where, in truth, can any thing be found that shall make its 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 27 

air of ceaseless jubilee seem tame ? — or its thousand depots of all 
that is prettiest in art, lose by comparison with any other pretty 
things in the wide world ? Where do all the externals of happi- 
ness meet the eye so readily ? — or where can the heavy spirit so 
easily be roused to seek and find enjoyment ? Cold, worn out, and 
dead indeed must the heart be, that does not awaken to some throb 
of pleasure, when Paris, after long absence, comes again in sight! 
For though a throne has been overturned, the Tuileries still 
remain ; — though the main stock of a right royal tree has been 
torn up, and a scion sprung from one of the roots, that had run, 
wildly enough, to a distance, has been barricaded in, and watered, 
and nurtured, and fostered into power and strength of growth to 
supply its place, the Boulevards, with their matchless aspect of 
eternal holyday, are still the same. No commotion, however vio- 
lent, has yet been able to cause this light but precious essence of 
Parisian attractiveness to evaporate ; and while the very founda- 
tions of society have been shaken round them, the old elms go on, 
throwing their flickering shadows upon a crowd that — allowing for 
some vagaries of the milliner and tailor — might be taken for the 
very same, and no other, which has gladdened the eye and enli- 
vened the imagination since first their green boughs beckoned all 
that was fairest and gayest in Paris to meet together beneath them. 
While this is the case, and while sundry other enchantments 
that may be named in their turn continue to proclaim that Paris is 
Paris still, it would be silly quarrelling with something better than 
bread-and-butter, did we spend the time of our abode here in dream- 
ing of what has been, instead of opening our eyes and endeavour- 
ing to be as much awake as possible to look upon all that is. 

Farewell ! 



LETTER II. 

Absence of the English Embassy — Trial of the Lyons Prisoners — Church of the Made- 
leine — Statue of Napoleon. 

It may be doubtful, perhaps, whether the present period* be 
more favourable or unfavourable for the arrival of English travel- 
lers at Paris. The sort of interregnum which has taken place in 
our embassy here, deprives us of the centre round which all that 
is most gay among the English residents usually revolves ; but, on 
the other hand, the approaching trial of the Lyons prisoners and 
their Parisian accomplices is stirring up from the very bottom all 

* April, 1835. ' 



28 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

the fermenting passions of the nation. Every principle, however 
quietly and unobtrusively treasured, — every feeling, however cau- 
tiously concealed, — is now afloat ; and the most careless observer 
may expect to see, with little trouble, the genuine temper of the 
people. 

The genuine temper of the people ? — Nay, but this phrase must 
be mended ere it can convey to you any idea of what is indeed 
likely to be made visible ; for, as it stands, it might intimate that 
the people were of one temper ; and any thing less like the truth 
than this cannot easily be imagined. 

The temper of the people of Paris upon the subject of this 
** atrocious trial," as all parties not connected with the government 
are pleased to call it, varies according to their politics, — from rage 
and execration to ecstasy and delight — from indifference to enthu- 
siasm — from triumph to despair. 

It will be impossible, my friend, to ramble up and down Paris 
for eight or nine weeks, with a note-book in my hand, without re- 
curring again and again to a theme that meets us in every salon, 
murmurs through the corridors of every theatre, glares from the 
eyes of the republican, sneers from the hp of the doctrinaire, and 
in some shape or other crc jses our path, let it lead in what direc- 
tion it may. 

This being inevitable, the monster must be permitted to pro- 
trude its horns occasionally ; nor must I bear the blame should it 
sometimes appear to you a very tedious and tiresome monster in- 
deed. Having announced that its appearance may be frequently 
expected, I will leave you for the present in the same state of ex- 
pectation respecting it that we are in ourselves ; and, while we are 
still safe from its threatened violence, indulge in a little peaceable 
examination of the still-life part of the picture spread out before me. 

The first objects that struck me as new on re-entering Paris, or 
rather as changed since I last saw them, were the Column of the 
Place Vendome, and the finished Church of the Madeleine. Fin- 
ished indeed ! Did Greece ever show any combination of stones 
and mortar more graceful, more majestic than this ? If she did, it 
was in the days of her youth ; for, poetical association apart, and 
the unquestionably great pleasure of learned investigation set 
aside, no ruin can possibly meet the eye with such perfect symme- 
try of loveliness, or so completely fill and satisfy the mind, as does 
this modern temple. 

Why might not our National Gallery have risen as noble, as sim- 
ple, as beautiful as this ? 

As for the other novelty — the statue of the sometime Emperor 
of the French, I suspect that I looked up at it with rather more 
approbation than became an Enghshwoman. But in truth, though 
ithe name of Napoleon brings with it reminiscences which call up 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 29 

many hostile feelings, I can never find myself in Paris without re- 
membering his good rather than his terrible actions. Perhaps, too, 
as one gazes on this brazen monument of his victories, there may 
be something soothing in the recollection that the bold standard he 
bore never for an instant wantoned on a British breeze. 

However, putting sentiment and personal feeling of every kind 
apart, so much that is admirable in Paris owes its origin to him, 
that his ambition and his usurpations are involuntarily forgotten, 
and the use made of his ill-gotten power almost obliterates the law- 
less tyranny of the power itself. The appearance of his statue, 
therefore, on the top of the column formed of the cannon taken by 
the armies of France when fighting under his command, appeared 
to me to be the result of an arrangement founded upon perfect pro- 
priety and good taste. 

When his efiigy was torn down some twenty years ago by the 
avenging hands of the Allies, the act was one both of moral jus- 
tice and of natural feeling ; and that the rightful owners of the 
throne he had seized should never have replaced it, can hardly be 
matter of surprise : but that it should now again be permitted to 
look down upon the fitful fortunes of the French people, has some- 
thing of historic propriety in it which pleases the imagination. 

This statue of Napoleon offers the only instance I remember in 
which that most grotesque of European habiliments, a cocked hat, 
has been immortalized in marble or in bronze with good effect. 
The original statue, with its flowing outline of Roman drapery, 
was erected by a feeling of pride ; but this portrait of him has the 
every-day familiar look that could best satisfy affection. Instead 
of causing the eye to turn away, as it does from some faithful por- 
traitures of modern costume, with positive disgust, this chapeau a 
trois cornes, and the well-known loose redingote, have that air of 
picturesque truth in them which is sure to please the taste, even 
where it does not touch the heart. 

To the French themselves this statue is little short of an idol. 
Fresh votive wreaths are perpetually hung about its pedestal ; and 
little draperies of black crape, constantly renewed, show plainly 
how fondly his memory is still cherished. 

While Napoleon was still among them, the halo of his military 
glory, bright as it was, could not so dazzle the eyes of the nation 
but that some portentous spots were discerned even in the very 
nucleus of that glory itself; but now that it shines upon them 
across his tomb, it is gazed at with an enthusiasm of devoted af- 
fection which mixes no memory of error with its regrets. 

It would, I think, be very difficult to find a Frenchman, let his 
party be what it might, who would speak of Napoleon with dis- 
respect. 

I one day passed the foot af his gorgeous pedestal in company 



30 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

With a legitimate sans reproche, who, raising his eyes to the 
statue, said — "Notre position, Madame Trollope, est bien dure : 
nous avons perdu le droit d'etre iideles, sans avoir plus celui d'etre 

fiers."* 



LETTER III. 

Slang— Les Jeunes Gens de Paris— La Jeune France— Rococo— D6cousu. 

I SUPPOSE that, among all people and at all times, a certain 
portion of what we call slang will insinuate itself into familiar col- 
loquial intercourse, and sometimes even dare to make its unsanc- 
tioned accents heard from the tribune and the stage. It appears 
to me, I confess, that France is at present taking considerable 
liberties with her mother-tongue. But this is a subject which re- 
quires for its grave discussion a native critic, and a learned one 
too. I therefore can only venture distantly and doubtingly to al- 
lude to it, as one of the points at which it appears to me that in- 
novation is visibly and audibly at work. 

I know it may be said that every additional word, whether fab- 
ricated or borrowed, adds something to the riches of the language ; 
and no doubt it does so. But there is a polished grace, a finished 
elegance in the language of France, as registered in the writings 
of her Augustan age, which may well atone for the want of greater 
copiousness, with which it has been sometimes reproached. To 
increase its strength, by giving it coarseness, would be like ex- 
changing a high-mettled racer for a dray-horse. A brewer would 
tell you, that you gained in power what you lost in grace ; it may 
be so ; but there are many, I think, even in this age of operatives 
and utilitarians, who would regret the change. 

This is a theme, however, as I have said before, on which I 
should not feel myself justified in saying much. None should pre- 
tend to examine, or at any rate to discuss critically, the niceties 
of idiom in a language that is not native to him. But, distinct 
from any such presumptuous examination, there are words and 
phrases lawfully within the reach of foreign observation, which 
strike me as remarkable at the present day, either from their fre- 
quent recurrence, or for something of unusual emphasis in the 
manner in which they are employed. 

Les jeunes gens de Paris appears to me to be one of these. 
Translate it, and you find nothing but " the young men of Paris ;" 

* Our case, Mrs. Trollope, is very hard. We have lost the privilege of loyalty, with- 
out acquiring any thing to be proud of. 



PARIS ANB THE PARISIANS. 31 

which should seem to have no more imposing meaning than " the 
young men of London/' or of any other metropolis. But hear it spo- 
ken at Paris — Mercy on me ! it sounds like a thunderbolt. It is not 
only loud and blustering, however ; you feel that there is some- 
thing avirful — -nay, mystical, implied by the phrase. It appears 
solemnly to typify the power, the authority, the learning — ay, and 
the wisdom too, of the whole nation. 

.La jeune France is another of these cabalistic forms of speech, 
by which everybody seems expected to understand something 
great, terrible, volcanic, and sublime. At present, I confess that 
both of these, pronounced as they always are with a sort of myste- 
rious emphasis, which seems to say that " more is meant than 
meets the ear," produce rather a paralyzing efiect upon me. I 
am conscious that I do not clearly comprehend all the meaning 
with which they are pregnant, and yet I am afraid to ask, lest the 
explanation should prove either more unintelligible or more alarm- 
ing than even the words themselves. I hope, however, that ere 
long I shall grow more intelligent or less timid ; and whenever 
this happens, and I conceive that I fully comprehend their occult 
meaning, I will not fail to transmit it faithfully to you. 

Besides these phrases, and some others that I may, perhaps, 
mention hereafter as difficult to understand, I have learned a word 
quite new to me, and which, I suspect, has but very recently been 
introduced into the French language; at least, it is not to be 
found in the dictionaries, and I therefore presume it to be one 
of those happy inventions which are permitted from time to 
time to enrich the power of expression. How the Academy 
of former days might have treated it, I know not ; but it seems to 
me to express a great deal, and might at this time, I think, be intro- 
duced very conveniently into our own language : at any rate, it may 
often help me, I think, as a very useful adjective. This new-born 
word is " rococo,''^ and appears to me to be applied by the young 
and innovating to every thing which bears the stamp of the taste, 
principles, or feelings of time past. That part of the French popu- 
lation to whom the epithet of rococo is thus applied, may be un- 
derstood to contain all varieties of old-fashionism, from the gentle 
advocate for laced coats and diamond swordknots, up to the high- 
minded venerable loyalist, who only loves his rightful king the 
better because he has no means left to requite his love. Such is 
the interpretation of rococo in the mouth of a doctrinaire : but if a 
republican speaks it, he means that it should include also every 
gradation of orderly obedience, even to the powers that be ; and, 
in fact, whatever else may be considered as essentially connected 
either with law or gospel. 

There is another adjective which appears also to recur so fre- 
quently, as fully to merit, in the same manner, the distinction of 



32 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

being considered as fashionable. It is, however, a good old legit- 
inaate word, admirably expressive, too, and at present of more 
than ordinary utility. This is " decousu ;" and it seems to be the 
epithet now given by the sober-minded to all that smacks of the 
rambling nonsense of the new school of literature, and of all those 
fragments of opinions which hang so loosely about the minds of 
the young men who discourse fashionably of philosophy at Paris. 
Were the whole population to be classed under two great divis- 
ions, I doubt if they could be more expressively designated than 
by these two appellations, the decousu and the rococo. I have 
already stated who it is that form the rococo class : the decousu 
division may be considered as embracing the whole of the ultra- 
romantic school of authors, be they novelists, dramatists, or poets ; 
all shades of republicans, from the avowed eulogists of the " spir- 
ited Robespierre," to the gentler disciples of Lamennais ; most of 
the schoolboys, and all the poissardes of Paris. 



LETTER IV. 

Th6&tre FranQais — Mademoiselle Mars— Elmire— tharlotte Brown— Extract from a 

Sermon. 

It was not without some expectation of having " Guilty of ro- 
cocoism" recorded against me, that I avowed, very soon after my 
arrival, the ardent desire I felt of turning my eyes from all that 
was new, that I might once again see Mars perform the part of 
Elmire in the *' Tartuffe." 

I was not quite without fear, too, that I was running some risk 
of effacing the delightful recollections of the past, by contempla- 
ting the change which seven years had made. I almost feared 
to let my children behold a reality that might destroy their beau 
ideal of the only perfect actress still remaining on the stage. 

But *' Tartuffe" was on the bills : it might not soon appear 
again ; an early dinner was hastily despatched, and once more I 
found myself before the curtain which I had so often seen rise to 
Talma, Duchenois, and Mars. 

I perceived with great pleasure, on reaching the theatre, that 
the Parisians, though fickle in all else, were still faithful in their 
adoration of Mademoiselle Mars : for now, for perhaps the five 
hundredth representation of her Elmire, the barricades were as 
necessary, the queue as long and as full, as when, fifteen years ago, 
I was first told to remark the wonderful power of attraction pos- 
sessed by an actress already greatly past the first bloom of youth 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 33 

and beauty. Were the Parisians as defensible in their ordinary- 
love of change as they are in this singular proof of fidelity, it 
would be well. It is, however, strange witchery. 

That the ear should be gratified, and the feelings awakened, by 
the skilful intonation of a voice the sweetest, perhaps, that ever 
blest a mortal, is quite intelligible ; but that the eye should follow, 
with such unwearied delight, erevy look and movement of a 
woman, not only old — for that does sometimes happen at Paris — 
but one known to be so from one end of Europe to the other, is 
certainly a singular phenomenon. Yet so it is ; and could you 
see her, you would understand why, though not how, it is so. 
There is still a charm, a grace, in every movement of Mademoi- 
selle Mars, however trifling, and however slight, which instantly 
captivates the eye, and forbids it to wander to any other object — 
even though that object be young and lovely. 

Why is it, that none of the young heads can learn to turn like 
hers ? Why can no arms move with the same beautiful and easy 
elegance ? Her very fingers, even when gloved, seem to aid her 
expression ; and the quietest and least posture-studying of ac- 
tresses, contrives to make the most trifling and ordinary move- 
ment assist in giving effect to her part. 

I would willingly consent to be dead for a few hours, if I could 
meanwhile bring Molifere to life, and let him see Mars play one 
of his best-loved characters. How delicious would be his pleasure 
in beholding the creature of his own fancy thus exquisitely alive 
before him ; and of marking, moreover, the thrill that makes it- 
self heard along the closely-packed rows of the parterre, when his 
wit, conveyed by this charming conductor, runs round the house 
like the touch of electricity ! Do you think that the best smile 
of Louis le Grand could be worth this ? 

Few theatrical pieces can, I think, be calculated to give less 
pleasure than that of " Charlotte Brown," which followed the 
" TartufFe ;" but as the part of Charlotte is played by Mademoi- 
selle Mars, people will stay to see it. I repented, however, that 
I did not go, for it made me cross and angry. 

Such an actress as Mars should not be asked to try a tour de 
force in order to make an abortive production effective. And 
what else can it be called, if her touching pathos and enchanting 
grace are brought before the public, to make them endure a plati- 
tude that would have been hissed into oblivion ere it had well seen 
light without her ? It is hardly fair to expect that a performer 
should create as well as personate the chief character of a piece ; 
but Mademoiselle Mars certainly does nothing less, when she 
contrives to excite sympathy and interest for a low-born and low- 
minded woman, who has managed to make a great match by tel- 
ling a great falsehood. Yet " Charlotte Brown" is worth seeing 

C 



34 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

for the sake of a certain tragic look given by this wonderful ac- 
tress at the moment when her falsehood is discovered. It is no 
exaggeration to say, that Mrs. Siddons never produced an expres- 
sion of greater power. 

It is long since I have seen any theatre so crowded. 

I remember many years ago hearing what I thought an excel- 
lent sermon from a venerable rector, who happened to have a cu- 
rate more remarkable for the conscientious manner in which he 
performed his duty to the parish, and the judicious selection of his 
discourses, than for the excellence of his original sermons. " It 
is the duty of a minister," said the old man, " to address the con- 
gregation which shall assemble to hear him with the most impres- 
sive and most able eloquence that it is wiihin the compass of his 
power to use ; and far better is it that the approved wisdom of 
those who have passed away be read from the pulpit, than that the 
weak efforts of an ungifted preacher should fall wearily and un- 
profitably on the ears of his congregation. The fact that his dis- 
course is manuscript, instead of printed, will hardly console them 
for the difference." 

Do you not think — with all reverence be it spoken — that the 
same reasoning might be very usefully addressed to the managers 
of theatres, not in France only, but all the world over ? If it cost 
too much to have a good new piece, would it not be better to have 
a good old one ? 



LETTER V. 

Exhibition of Living Artists at the Louvre— The Deluge— Poussin and Martin— Portraits 
_ — Appearance of the Company. ^ 

I HAVE been so little careful about dates and seasons, as totally 
to have forgotten, or rather neglected to learn, that the period of 
our arriving at Paris was that of the Exhibition of Living Artists 
at the Louvre : and it is not easy to describe the feehngs pro- 
duced by entering the gallery, with the expectation of seeing what 
I had been used to see there, and finding what was, at least, so 
very different. ^ 

Nevertheless, the exhibition is a very fine one, and so greatly 
superior to any I had heretofore seen of the modern French 
school, that we soon had the consolation of finding ourselves 
amused, and I may say delighted, notwithstanding our disappoint- 
ment. 




U Y 



F^3. 



Hai-per k Brotiers . 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 35 

But surely there never was a device hit upon so httle likely to 
propitiate the feelings which generate applause, as this of covering 
up Poussin, Rubens, Raphael, Titian, and Correggio, by hanging 
before them the fresh results of modern palettes. It is, indeed, a 
most un-coquettish mode of extorting attention. 

There are some pictures of the Louvre Gallery in particular, 
with which my children are well acquainted, either by engravings 
or description, whose eclipse produced a very sad effect. " The 
Deluge" of Poussin is one of these. Perhaps it may have been 
my brother's striking description of this picture which made it 
pre-eminently an object of interest to us. You may remember 
that Mr. Milton, in his elegant and curious little volume on the Fine 
Arts, written at Paris just before the breaking up of Napoleon's 
collection, says, in speaking of it — " Colouring was unquestiona- 
bly Poussin's least excellence ; yet in this collection there is one 
of his pictures — the Deluge — in which the effect produced by the 
mere colouring is most singular and powerful. The air is burden- 
ed and heavy with water ; the earth, where it is not as yet over- 
whelmed, seems torn to pieces by its violence : the very light of 
heaven is absorbed and lost." I give you this passage, because I 
remember no picture described with equal brevity, yet brought so 
powerfully before the imagination of the reader. 

Can the place where one comes to look for this be favourable 
for hanging our illustrious countryman's representation of the 
same subject ? It is doing him a most ungratifying honour ; and 
were I Mr. Martin, or any other painter living, I would not con- 
sent to be exposed to the invidious comparisons which must inev- 
itably ensue from such an injudicious arrangement. 

How exceedingly disagreeable, for instance, must it be for the 
artists — who, I believe, not unfrequently indulge themselves by 
hovering, under the incognito of apparent indifference, near their 
favourite works — to overhear such remarks as those to which I 
listened yesterday, in that part of the gallery where Le Sueur's St. 
Brunos hang ! — " Certainly, the bows on that lady's dress are of a 
delicate blue," said the critic ; " and so is the drapery of Le Sueur, 
which, for my sins, I happen to know is hid just under it. . . . 
Would one wish a better contrast to what it hides than that un- 
meaning smile — that cold, smooth, varnished skin — those lifeless 
limbs, and the whole unspeakable lameness of this thing, called 
"portrait d'une dame V 

He spoke truly ; yet was there but little point in what he said, 
for it might have referred with equal justice to many a pretty lady 
doomed to simper for ever in her gilded frame. 

On the whole, however, portraits are much less oppressively 
predominating than with us ; and among them are many whose 
size, composition, and exquisite style of finishing, redeem them 

C 2 



36 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

altogether from the odium of being de trop in the collection, I 
cannot but wish that this style of portrait-painting may find favour 
and imitation in England, 

Lawrence is gone ; and though Gerard on this side of the wa- 
ter, and, indeed, too many to rehearse on both, are left, whose por- 
traitures of the human face are admirable ; true to nature ; true 
to art ; true to expression, — true, even to the want of it ; I am 
greatly inclined to believe that the enormous sums annually ex- 
pended on these clever portraits contribute more to lower than to 
raise the art in popularity, and in the genuine estimation of the 
public. The sums thus lavished may be termed patronage, cer- 
tainly ; but it is patronage that bribes the artist to the restraint, 
and often to the destruction, of his genius. 

Is there, in fact, any one who can honestly deny that a splendid 
exhibition-room, crowded with ladies and gentlemen on canvass, 
as large as life, is a lounge of great tediousness and inanity ? 

We may feel some satisfaction in recognising at a glance the 
eyes, nose, mouth, and chin of many of our friends and acquaint- 
ance, — nay, our most critical judgment may often acknowledge 
that these familiar features are registered with equal truth and 
skill ; but this will not prevent the exhibition from being very dull. 
Nor is the thing much mended when each portrait, or pair of por- 
traits, has been withdrawn from the gaudy throng, and hung up for 
ever and for ever before the eyes of their family and friends. The 
fair lady, sweetly smiling in one division of the apartment, and 
the well-dressed gentleman looking distijigue in another, contrib- 
ute as little at home as they did when suspended on the walls of 
the academy to the real pleasure and amusement of the beholder. 

At the exhibition this year at the Louvre are many exquisite 
full-length portraits in oil, of which the canvass measures from 
eighteen inches to a foot in height, and from a foot to ten inches 
in width. The composition and style of these beautiful little 
pictures are often such asto deta in one long before them, even 
though one does not recognise in them the features of an ac- 
quaintance. Their unobtrusive size must prevent their ever 
being disagreeably predominant in the decoration of a room ; 
while their dehcate and elaborate finish, and the richness of their 
highly-studied composition, will well reward attention ; and even 
the closest examination, when directed to them, either by polite- 
ness, affection, or connoisseurship, can never be disappointed. 

The catalogue of the exhibition notices all the pictures which 
have been either ordered or purchased by the king or any of the 
royal family ; and the number is so considerable as to shov^r plainly 
that the most liberal and widely-extended patronage of art is a sys- 
tematic object with the government. 

The gold medal of the year has been courteously bestowed 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 37 

upon Mr. Martin for his picture of the Deluge. Had I been the 
judge, I should have awarded it to Stuben's Battle of "Waterloo. 
That the faculty of imagination is one of the highest requisites for 
a painter, is most certain ; and that Mr. Martin pre-eminently pos- 
sesses it, not less so. But imagination, though it can do much, 
cannot do all ; and common sense is at least equally important in 
the formation of a finished artist. The painter of the great day 
of Waterloo has both. His imagination has enabled him to dive 
into the very hearts and souls of the persons he has depicted. 
Passion speaks in every line ; and common sense has taught 
him, that, however powerful — nay, vehement, might be the expres- 
sion he sought to produce, it must be obtained ralher by the patient 
and faithful imitation of Nature, than by a bold defiance of her. 

The Assassination of the Due de Guise, by M. Delaroche, is 
an admirable and highly popular work. It requires some patient 
perseverance to contest inch by inch the slow approach to the 
place where this exquisite piece of finishing is hunrr — but it well 
rewards the time and labour. One or two lovely little pictures by 
Franquelin made me envy those who have power to purchase, 
and sigh to think that they will probably go into private collec- 
tions, where I shall never see them more. There are, indeed, many 
pictures so very good, that I think it possible the judges may 
have relieved themselves from the embarrassment of declaring 
which was best, by politely awarding the palm to the stranger. 

I could indulge myself, did I not fear to weary you, by dwel- 
ling much longer upon my agreeable recollections of this extensive 
exhibition — containing, by the way, 2,174 pictures, — and might 
particularize many very admirable works. Nevertheless, I must 
repeat, that thus hiding the precious labours of all schools, and of 
all ages of painting, by the promiscuous productions of the living 
artists of France during the last year, is a most injudicious device 
for winning for them the golden opinions of those who throng 
from all quarters of the world to visit the Louvre. 

This exhibition reaches to about three fourths of the gallery ; 
and where it ceases, a grim curtain, suspended across it, conceals 
the precious labours of the Spanish and Italian schools, which 
occupy the farther end. Can any thing be imagined more tanta- 
lizing than this ? And where is the living artist who could stand 
his ground against such cruel odds ? 

To render the effect more striking still, this dismal curtain is 
permitted so to hang, as to leave a few inches between its envious 
amplitude and the rich wall — suffering the mellow browns of a 
well-known Murillo to meet and mock the eye. Certainly not all 
the lecturers of all the academies extant could point out a more 
effectual manner of showing the modern French artist wherein he 
chiefly fails : let us hope he will profit by it. 



38 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

As I am writing of Paris, it must be almost superfluous to say, 
that the admission to this collection is gratis. 

I cannot quit the subject without adding a few words respecting 
the company, or at least a part of it, whose appearance, I thought, 
gave very unequivocal marks of the march of mind and of inde- 
corum ; — for a considerable sprinkling of very particularly greasy 
citizens and citizenesses made itself felt and seen at every point 
where the critical crowd was thickest. But — 

" Sweetest nut hath sourest rind ;" 

and it were treason here, I suppose, to doubt that such a propor- 
tion of intellect and refinement lies hid under the soiled blouse 
and time-worn petticoat, as is at least equal to any that we may 
hope to find enveloped in lawn, and lace, and broadcloth. 

It is an incontrovertible fact, I think, that when the immortals 
of Paris raised the barricades in the streets, they pulled them 
down, more or less, in society. But this is an evil which those 
who look beyond the present hour for their sources of joy and 
sorrow need not deeply lament. Nature herself — at least such 
as she shows herself, when man, forsaking the forest, agrees with 
his fellows to congregate in cities — Nature herself will take care 
to set this right again. 

•' Strength will be lord of imbecility ;" 

and were all men equal in the morning, they would not go to rest 
till some among them had been thoroughly made to understand 
that it was their lot to strew the couches of the rest. Such is the 
law of nature ; and mere brute numerical strength will no more 
enable a. mob to set it aside, than it will enable the o^ or the ele- 
phant to send us to plough, or draw out our teeth to make their 
young ones toys. 

For the present moment, however, some of the rubbish that 
the commotion of " the Ordonnances" stirred up may still be seen 
floating about on the surface ; and it is difficult to observe without 
a smile, in what chiefly consists the liberty which these immortals 
have so valiantly bled to acquire. We may truly say of the phil- 
osophical population of Paris, that " they are thankful for small 
matters ;" one of the most remarkable of their newly-acquired 
rights being certainly the privilege of presenting themselves 
dirty, instead of clean, before the eyes of their magnates. 

I am sure you must remember in days of yore, — that is to say, 
before the last revolution, — how very agreeable a part of the spec- 
tacle at the Louvre and in the Tuileries Gardens was constituted 
by the people, — not the ladies and gentlemen — they look pretty 
much the same everywhere ; but by the careful coquetry of the 
pretty costumes, now a cauchoise, and now a toque, — the spruce 
neatness of the men who attended them, — nay, even by the tight 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 39 

and tidy trimness of the " wee things" that in long waist, silk 
apron, snow-white cap, and faultless chaussure, trotted beside 
them. Ail these added greatly to the pleasantness and gayety of 
the scene. But now, till the fresh dirt (not the fresh gloss) of the 
Three Days' labour be worn off, dingy jackets, uncomely cas- 
quettes, ragged blouses, and ill-favoured round-eared caps, that 
look as if they did duty night and day, must all be tolerated ; and 
in this toleration appears to consist, at present, the principal ex- 
ternal proof of the increased liberty of the Parisian mob. 



LETTER VI. 

Society — Morality — False Impressions and False Reports — Observations from a French- 
man on a recent publication. 

Much as I love the sights of Pari_s, — including as we must 
under this term all that is great and enduring, as well as all that 
is for ever changing and for ever new, — I am more earnestly bent, 
as you will readily believe, upon availing myself of all my oppor- 
tunities for listening to the conversation within the houses, than 
on contemplating all the marvels that may be seen without. 

Joyfully, therefore, have 1 welcomed the attention and kindness 
that have been offered me in various quarters ; and I have already 
the satisfaction of finding myself on terms of most pleasant and 
familiar intercourse with a variety of very delightful people, many 
of them highly distinguished, and, happily for me, varying in their 
opinions of all things both in heaven and earth, from the loftiest ele- 
vation of the rococo, to the lowest profundity of the d^cousu school. 

And here let me pause, to assure you, and any other of my 
countrymen and countrywomen whose ears I can reach, that 
excursions to Paris, be they undertaken with what spirit of enter- 
prise they may, and though they may be carried through with all 
the unrestrained expense that English wealth can permit, yet with- 
out the power by some means or other of entering into good French 
society, they are nothing worth. 

It is true, that there is something most exceedingly exhilarating 
to the spirits in the mere external novelty and cheerfulness of the 
objects which surround a stranger on first entering Paris. That 
indescribable air of gayety which makes every sunshiny day look 
like a fete ; the light hilarity of spirit that seems to pervade all 
ranks ; the cheerful tone of voice, the sparkling glances of the 
numberless bright eyes ; the gardens, the flowers, the statues of 
Paris — all together produce an effect very like enchantment. 



40 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

But "use lessens marvel;" and when the first delightful excite- 
ment is over, and we begin to feel weary from its very intensity, the 
next step is backward into rationality, low spirits, and grumbling. 

From that moment the English tourist talks of nothing but 
wide rivers, magnificent bridges, prodigious trottoirs, unrivalled 
drains, and genuine port. It is at this stage that the traveller, in 
order to continue his enjoyment and bring it to perfection, should 
remit his examination of the exterior of noble hotels, and endeav- 
our to be admitted to the much more enduring enchantment 
which prevails within them. 

So much has already been said and written on the grace and 
charm of the French language in conversation, that it is quite 
needless to dwell upon it. That good things can be said in no 
other idiom with equal grace, is a fact that can neither be contro- 
verted nor more firmly established than it is already. Happily, 
the art of expressing a clever thought in the best possible words 
did not die with Madame de Sevigne ; nor has it yet been de- 
stroyed by revolution of any kind. 

It is not only for the amusement of an hour, however, that I 
would recommend the assiduous cultivation of good French 
Bociety to the English. Great and important improvements in 
our national manners have already arisen from the intercourse 
which long peace has permitted. Our dinner-tables are no longer 
disgraced by inebriety ; nor are our men and women, when they 
form a party expressly for the purpose of enjoying each other's 
society, separated by the law of the land during half the period 
for which the social meeting has been convened. 

But we have much to learn still ; and the general tone of our 
daily associations might be yet farther improved, did the best spe- 
cimens of Parisian habits and manners furnish the examples. 

It is not from the large and brilliant parties which recur in 
every fashionable mansion, perhaps, three or four times in each 
season, that I think we could draw much improvement. A fine 

party at Lady A 's in Grosvenor Square, is not more like a 

fine party at Lady B 's in Berkeley Square, than a fine party 

in Paris is to one in London. There are abundance of pretty 
women, handsome men, satin, gauze, velvet, diamonds, chains, 
stars, mustaches, and imperials at both, with perhaps very little 
deserving the name of rational enjoyment in either. 

I suspect, indeed, that we have rather the advantage on these 
crowded occasions, for we more frequently change the air by 
passing from one room to another when we eat our ices ; and as 
the tulip-tinctured throng enjoy this respite from suffocation by 
detachments, they have often not only opportunity to breathe, but 
occasionally to converse also, for several minutes together, with- 
out danger of being dislodged from their standing-ground. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 41 

It is not, therefore, at the crowded roll-calls of all their acquaint- 
ance that I would look for any thing rational or peculiar in the 
salons of Paris, but in the daily and constant intercourse of fa- 
miliar companionship. This is enjoyed with a degree of pleasant 
ease — an absence of all pomp, pride, and circumstance, of which 
unhappily we have no idea. Alas ! we must know by special 
printed announcement a month beforehand that our friend is " at 
home," — that liveried servants will be in attendance, and her 
mansion blazing with light, — before we can dare venture to pass 
an evening hour in her drawing-room. How would a London 
lady stare, if some half-dozen — though perhaps among the most 
chosen favourites of her visiting-list — were to walk unbidden into 
her presence, in bonnets and shawls, between the hours of eight 
and eleven ! And how strangely new would it seem, were the 
pleasantest and most coveted engagements of the week, formed 
without ceremony and kept without ostentation, to arise from a 
casual meeting at the beginning of it ! 

It is this ease, this habitual absence of ceremony and parade, 
this national enmity to constraint and tediousness of all kinds, 
which renders the tone of French manners so infinitely more 
agreeable than our own. And the degree in which this is the 
case can only be guessed at by those who, by some happy acci- 
dent or other, possess a real and effective "open sesame !" for 
the doors of Paris. 

With all the superabundance of vanity ascribed to the French, 
they certainly show infinitely less of it in their intercourse with 
their fellow-creatures than we do. I have seen a countess, whose 
title was of a dozen fair descents, open the external door of her 
apartment, and welcome the guests who appeared at it with as 
much grace and elegance, as if a triple relay of tall fellows who 
wore her colours had handed their names from hall to drawing- 
room. Yet in this case there was no want of wealth. Coach- 
man, footman, abigail, and doubtless all fitting etceteras, owned her 
as their sovereign lady and mistress. But they happened to have 
been sent hither and thither, and it never entered her imagination 
that her dignity could be compromised by her appearing w^ithout 
them. In short, the vanity of the French does not show itself in 
little things ; and it is exactly for this reason that their enjoyment 
of society is stripped of so much of the anxious, sensitive, osten- 
tatious, self-seeking etiquette which so heavily encumbers our own. 
i There are some among us, my friend, who might say of this 
testimony to the charm of French society, that there was danger 
in praising, and pointing out as an example to be followed, the 
manners of a people whose morality is considered as so much 
less strict than our own. Could I think that, by thus approving 
what is agreeable, I could lessen by a single hair's-breadth the 



42 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

interval ■which we believe exists between us in this respect, I 
would turn my approval to reproof, and my superficial praise to 
deep-died reprobation : but to any who should express such a 
fear, I would reply by assuring them that it would require a very 
different species of intimacy from any to which I had the honour 
of being admitted, in order to authorize, from personal observa- 
tion, any attack upon the morals of Parisian society. More scru- 
pulous and delicate refinement in the tone of manners can neither 
be found nor wished for anywhere ; and I do very strongly sus- 
pect, that many of the pictures of French depravity which have 
been brought home to us by our travellers, have been made after 
sketches taken in scenes and circles to which the introductions I 
so strongly recommend to my countrywomen could by no possi- 
bility lead them. It is not of such that I can be supposed to speak. 

Apropos of false impressions and false reports, I may repeat to 
you an anecdote which I heard yesterday evening. The little 
committee in which it was related consisted of at least a dozen 
persons, and it appeared that I was myself the only one to whom 
it was new. 

" It is rather more than two years ago," said the speaker, *' that 
we had among us an English gentleman, who avowed that it was 
his purpose to write on France, not as other men write — superfi- 
cially, respecting truths that lie obvious to ordinary eyes — but 
with a research that should make him acquainted with all things 
above, about, and underneath. He professed this intention to 
more than one dear friend ; and more than one dear friend took 
the trouble of tracing him in his chase after l^idden truths. Not 
long after his arrival among us, this gentleman became inti- 
mately acquainted with a lady more celebrated for the variety 
of her friendships with men of letters than for the endurance of 
them. This lady received the attentions of the stranger with 
distinguished kindness, and, among other proofs of regard, un- 
dertook to purvey for him all sorts of private anecdotes, great 
and little, that from the mass he might form an average esti- 
mate of the people ; assuring him at the same time, that no 
one in Paris was more au fait of its secret histories than her- 
self. This," continued my informant, " might be, and I believe 
was, very particularly true ; and the English traveller might have 
been justified in giving to his countrymen and countrywomen as 
much insight into such mysteries as he thought good for them : 
but when he published the venomous slanders of this female re- 
specting persons not only of the highest honour, but of the most 
unspotted reputation, he did what will blast his name as long as 
his charlatan book is remembered." Such were the indignant 
words, and there was nothing in the tone with which they were 
uttered to weaken their expression. 



ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 43 

I tell you the tale as I heard it ; but I will not repeat much 
more that was said on the same subject, nor will I give any 

A , B , or C '. . hints as to the names so 

freely mentioned. 

Some degree of respectability ought certainly to attach to those 
from whom important information is sought respecting the morals 
and manners of a country, when it is the intention of the inquirer 
that his observations and statements upon it should become au- 
thority to the whole civihzed world. 

The above conversation, however, was brought to a laughing 

conclusion by Madame C , who, addressing her husband as 

he was seconding the angry eloquence I have repeated, said 
" Calmez-vous done, mon ami : apres tout, le tableau fait par M. le 
Voyageur des dames Anglaises n'a rien a nous faire mourir de ja- 
lousie."* 

I suspect that neither you nor any other lady of England will 
feel disposed to contradict her. 

Adieu ! 



LETTER VII. 

Alarm created by the Trial of the Lyons Prisoners — Visits from a Republican and from 
a Doctrinaire : reassured by the promises of safety and protection received from the 
latter. 

We have really had something very like a panic among us, 
from the rumours in circulation respecting this terrible trial, which 
is now rapidly approaching. Many people think that fearful scenes 
may be expected to take place in Paris when it begins. 

The newspapers of all parlies are so full of the subject, that 
there is little else to be found in them ; and all those, of whatever col- 
our, which are opposed to the government, describe the manner in 
which the proceedings are to be managed as the most tyrannical 
exercise of power ever practised in modern Europe. 

The legitimate royalists declare it to be illegal, inasmuch as 
the culprits have a right to be tried by a jury of their peers — the 
citizens of France ; whereas it appears that this their chartered 
right is denied them, and that no other judge or jury is to be per- 
mitted in their case than the peers of France. 

Whether this accusation will be satisfactorily answered, I know 
not ; but there certainly does appear to be something rather plau- 

* Be comforted, my good friend; after all, there is nothing to excite our jealousy in 
lUe portrait of his own countrywomen; drawn by the traveller. 



44 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

sible, at least, in the objection. Nevertheless, it is not very diffi- 
cult to see that the 28th Article of the Charter may be made to 
answer it, which says, — 

*' The Chamber of Peers takes cognizance of high-treason, and 
of attempts against the safety of the state, which shall he de- 
fined by lawP 

Now, though this defining hy law appears, by what I can learn, 
to be an operation not yet quite completed, there seems to be some- 
thing so very like high-treason in some of the offences for which 
these prisoners are to be tried, that the first clause of the article may 
do indifferently well to cover it. 

The republican journals, pamphlets, and publications of all sorts, 
however, treat the whole business of their detention and trial as 
the most tremendous infringement of the newly-acquired rights 
of Young France ; and they say — nay, they do swear, that crowned 
king, created peers, and placed ministers, never dared to venture 
upon any thing , so tyrannical as this. 

All that the unfortunate Louis Seize ever did, or suffered to be 
done — all that the banished Charles Dix ever threatened to do — 
never " roared so loud, and thundered in the index," as does this 
deed without a name about to be perpetrated by King Louis Phi- 
lippe the First. 

At last, however, the horrible thing has been christened, and 
Proces Monstre is its name. This is a happy device, and will 
save a world of words. Before it received this expressive appel- 
lation, every paragraph concerning it began by a roundabout spe- 
cification of the horrific business they were about to speak of; but 
since this lucky name has been hit upon, all prefatory eloquence 
is become unnecessary : Proces Monstre ! simply Proces Mon- 
stre ! expresses all it could say in two words ; and whatever fol- 
lows may safely become matter of news and narrative respect- 
ing it. 

This news, and thesfr narratives, however, still vary considerably, 
and leave one in a very vacillating state of mind as to what may 
happen next. One account states that Paris is immediately to be 
put under martial law, and all foreigners, except those attached to 
the different embassies, civilly requested to depart. Another de- 
clares all this to be a weak invention of the enemy ; but hints that 
it is probable a pretty strong cordon of troops will surround the 
city, to keep watch day and night, lest les jeunes gens of the me- 
tropolis, in their mettlesome mood, should seek to wash out in the 
blood of their fellow-citizens zhe stain which the illegitimate birth 
of the monster has brought upon France. Others announce that 
a devoted body of patriots have sworn to sacrifice a hecatomb of 
National Guards, to atone for an abomination which many believe 
to originate with them. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 45 

Not a few declare that the trial will never take place ; that the 
government, audacious as they say it is, dare do no more than hold 
up the effigy of the monster to frighten the people, and that a gen- 
eral amnesty will end the business. In truth, it would be a tedi- 
ous task to record one half of the tales that are in circulation on 
this subject : but I do assure you, that listening to the awful note 
of preparation for all that is to be done at the Luxembourg is quite 
enough to make one nervous, and many English families have al- 
ready thought it prudent to leave the city. 

At one moment we were really worked into a state very nearly 
approaching terror by the vehement eloquence of a fiery-hot re- 
publican who paid us a visit. I ventured to lead to the terrible 
subject by asking him if he thought the approaching political trials 
likely to produce any result beyond their disagreeable influence 
on the convenience of the parties concerned ; but I really repented 
my temerity when I savir the cloud which gathered on his brow 
as he replied : — 

" Result ! What do you call result, madam ? Is the burning in- 
dignation of millions of Frenchmen a result ? Are the execrations 
of the noble beings enslaved, imprisoned, tortured, trampled on by 
tyranny, a result ? Are the groans of their wives and mothers — 
are the tears of their bereaved children — a result ? — Yes, yes, 
there will be results enough ! They are yet to come, but come 
they will ; and when they do, think you that the next revolution 
will be one of three days ? Do your countrymen think so ? does 
Europe think sa? There has been another revolution, to which it 
will more resemble." 

He looked rather ashamed of himself, I thought, when he had 
concluded his tirade — and well he might : but there was such a 
hideous tone of prophecy in this, that I actually trembled as I 
listened to him, and, all jesting apart, thoughts of passports to be 
signed and conveyances to be hired were arranging themselves 
very seriously in my brain. But before we went out for the even- 
ing, all these' gloomy meditations were most agreeably dispersed 
by a visit from a staid old doctrinaire, who was not only a soberer 
politician, but one considerably more likely to know what he was 
talking about than the youth who had harangued us in the morning. 

Anxious to have my fears either confirmed or removed, I hast- 
ened to tell him, half in jest, half in earnest, that we were begin- 
ning to think of taking an abrupt leave of Paris. " And why ?" 
said he. 

I stated very seriously my newly-awakened fears ; at which he 
laughed heartily, and with an air of such unfeigned amusement, 
that I was cured at once. 

" Whom can you have been listening to ?" said he. 

" I will not give up my authority," I replied, with proper diplo- 



46 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

matic discretion ; " but I will tell you exactly what a gentleman 
who has been here this morning has been saying to us," And I 
did so precisely as I have repeated it to you ; upon which he 
laughed more heartily than before, and rubbing his hands as if per- 
fectly delighted, he exclaimed : " Delicious ! And you really have 
been fortunate enough to fall in with one of these enfans perdus ? 
I really wish you joy. But do not set off immediately : listen first 
to another view of the case." I assured him that this was exact- 
ly what I wished to do, and very truly declared that he could do 
me no greater favour than to put me au fait of the real state of 
affairs. 

" WiHingly will I do so," said he ; " and be assured I will not 
deceive you." Whereupon I closed the croisie, that no rattling 
wheels might disturb us, and prepared to listen. 

" My good lady," he began with great kindness, " soyez tran- 
quille. There is no more danger of revolution at this time in 
France than there is in Russia. Louis Philippe is adored ; the 
laws are respected ; order is universally established ; and if there 
be a sentiment of discontent or a feeling approaching to irritation 
among any deserving the name of Frenchmen, it is against these 
miserable vauriens, who still cherish the wild hope of disturbing 
our peace and our prosperity. But fear nothing : trust me, the 
number of these is too small to make it worth while to count them." 

You will believe I heard this with sincere satisfaction ; and I 
really felt very grateful, both for the information, and the friendly 
manner in which it was given. 

" I rejoice to hear this," said I : " but may I, as a matter of 
curiosity, ask you what you think about this famous trial ? How 
do you think it will end ?" 

" As all trials ought to end," he replied : " by bringing all such 
as are found guilty to punishment." 

"Heaven grant it!" said I; "for the sake of mankind in gen 
eral, and for that portion of it in particular which happen at the 
present moment to inhabit Paris. But do you not think that the 
irritation produced by these preparations at the Luxembourg is of 
considerable extent and violence ?" 

" To whatever extent this irritation may have gone," he answer- 
ed gravely, "it is an undoubted fact, — undoubted in the quarter 
where most is known about the matter, — that the feeling which ap- 
proves these preparations is not only of greater extent, but of 
infinitely deeper sincerity, than that which is opposed to it. What 
you have heard to-day is mere unmeaning bluster. The trial, 1 
do assure you, is very popular. It is for the justification and pro- 
tection of the National Guard ; — and are we not all National 
Guards ?" 

*' But are all the National Guards true ?" 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 47 

" Perhaps not. But be sure of -this, that there are enough true 
to egorger without any difficulty those who are not." 

" But is it not very probable," said I, " that the republican feel- 
ing may be quite strong enough to produce another disturbance, 
though not another revolution? And the situation of strangers 
would probably become very embarrassing, should this eventually 
lead to any renewed outbreakings of public enthusiasm." 

" Not the least in the world, I do assure you ; for, at any rate, 
all the enthusiasm, as you civilly call it, would only elicit addi- 
tional proof of the stability and power of the government which 
we are now so happy as to enjoy. The enthusiasm would be 
speedily calmed, depend upon it." 

" A peaceable traveller," said I, " can wish for no better news ; 
and henceforward I shall endeavour to read and to listen with a 
tranquil spirit, let the prisoners or their partisans say what they 
may." 

" You will do wisely, believe me. Rest in perfect confidence 
and security, and be assured that Louis Philippe holds all the 
English as his right good friends. While this is the case, neither 
Windsor Castle, nor the Tower of London itself, could afford you 
a safer abode than Paris." 

With this seasonable and very efficient encouragement, he left 
me ; and as I really believe him to know more about the newborn 
politics of " Young France" than most people, I go on very tran- 
quilly making engagements, with but few misgivings lest barri- 
cades should prevent my keeping them. 



LETTER VIIL 

Eloquence of the Pulpit — L'Abb6 Coeur — Sermon at St. Roch — Elegant Congregation—- 
Costume of the younger Clergy. 

There is one novelty, and to me a very agreeable one, which 
I have remarked since my return to this volatile France : this is 
the fashion and consideration which now attend the eloquence of 
her preachers. 

Political economists assert that the supply of every article fol- 
lows the demand for it in a degree nicely proportioned to the 
wants of the population ; and it is upon this principle, I presume, 
that we must account for the present affluence of a talent which, 
some few years ago, could hardly be said to exist in France, and 
might, perhaps, have been altogether denied to it, had not the pages 
both of Fenelon and his eloquent antagonist, Bossuet, rendered 
such an injustice impossible. 



48 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

It was, I think, about a dozen years ago that I took some trouble 
to discover if any traces of this glorious eloquence remained at 
Paris. I heard sermons at Notre Dame — at St. Roch — at St. 
Eustache ; but never was a search after talent attended with worse 
success. The preachers were naught ; they had the air, too^ of 
being vulgar and uneducated men, — which I believe was, and in- 
deed still is, very frequently the case. The churches were nearly 
empty ; and the few persons scattered up and down their splendid 
aisles appeared, generally speaking, to be of the very lowest or- . 
der of old women. 

How great is now the contrast ! Nowhere are we so certain 
of seeing a crowd of elegantly-dressed and distinguished persons 
as in the principal churches of Paris. Nor is it a crowd that 
mocks the eyo with any tinsel pretensions to a rank they do not 
possess. Inquire who it is that so meekly and devoutly kneels on 
one side of you — that so sedulously turns the pages of her prayer- 
book on the other, and you will be answered by the announcement 
of the noblest names remaining in France. 

Though the eloquence of the pulpit has always been an object 
of attention and interest to me in all countries, I hardly ventured, , 
on my first arrival here, to inquire if any thing of the kind existed,, 
lest I should be sent to listen to an inaudible mumbling preacher, 
and to look at the deaf and dozing old women who formed his con- 
gregation. But it has needed no inquiry to make us speedily ac-. 
quainted with the fact, that the churches have become the favour- 
ite resort of the young, the beautiful, the highborn, and the in-,., 
structed. Whence comes this change ? 

" Have you heard L'Abbe Coeur ?" was a question asked me be-- 
fore I had been here a week, by one who would not for worlds be 
accounted rococo. When I replied that I had not even heard of - 
him, I saw plainly that it was decided I could know very little in- 
deed of what was going on in Paris. " That is really extraordi- 
nary ! but I engage you to go without delay. He is, I assure you, 
quite as much the fashion as Taglioni." 

As the conversation was continued on the subject of fashiona- 
ble preachers, I soon found that I was indeed altogether benight- 
ed. Other celebrated names were cited : Lacordaire, Deguerry, 
and some others that I do not remember, were spoken of as if their 
fame must of necessity have reached from pole to pole, but of 
which, in truth, I knew no more than if the gentlemen had been 
private chaplains to the princes of Chili. However, I set down 
all their names with much docility ; and the more I listened, the 
more I rejoiced that the Passion-week and Easter, those most 
Catholic seasons for preaching, were before us, being fully deter- 
mined to profit by this opportunity of hearing in perfection what 
was so perfectly new to me as popular preaching in Paris, 



1>AR1S AND THE PARISIANS. 49 

I have lost little time in putting this resolution into effect. The 
church of St. Roch is, I believe, the most fashionable in Paris ; 
it was there, too, that we were sure of hearing this celebrated Abbe 
Coeur; and both these reasons together decided that it was at 
St. Roch our sermon-seeking should begin : I therefore immedi- 
ately set about discovering the day and hour on which he would 
make his appearance in the pulpit. 

When inquiring these particulars in the church, we were inform- 
ed, that if we intended to procure chairs, it would be necessary to 
come at least one good hour before the high mass which preceded 
the sermon should begin. This was rather alarming intelligence to 
a party of heretics who had an immense deal of business on their 
hands ; but I was steadfast in my purpose, and, with a small de- 
tachment of my family, submitted to the preliminary penance of 
sitting the long silent hour in front of the pulpit of St. Roch. The 
precaution was, however, perfectly necessary, for the crowd was 
really tremendous ; but, to console us, it was of the most elegant 
description ; and, after all, the hour scarcely appeared much too 
long for the business of reviewing the vast multitude of graceful 
personages, waving plumes, and blooming flowers, that ceased not 
during every moment of the time to collect themselves closer and 
closer still about us. 

Nothing certainly could be more beautiful than this collection 
of bonnets, unless it were the collection of eyes under them. The 
proportion of ladies to gentlemen was on the whole, we thought, 
not less than twelve to one. 

" Je desirerais savoir," said a young man near me, addressing an 
extremely pretty woman who sat beside him, — " Je desirerais sa- 
voir si par hasard M. I'Abbe Coeur est jeune."* . ■ 

The lady answered not, but frowned most indignantly. 

A few minutes afterward, his doubts upon this point, if he really 
had any, were removed. A man far from ill-looking, and farther 
still from being old, mounted the tribune, and some thousands of 
bright eyes were riveted upon him. The silent and profound at- 
tention which hung on every word he uttered, unbroken as it was 
by a single idle sound, or even glance, showed plainly that his 
influence upon the splendid and numerous congregation that sur- 
rounded him must be very great, or the power of his eloquence 
very strong : and it was an influence and a power that, though 
" of another parish," I could well conceive must be generally felt, 
for he was in earnest. His voice, though weak and somewhat 
wiry, was distinct, and his enunciation clear : I did not lose a 
word. 

His manner was simple and affectionate ; his language strong, 

* Will you be kind enough to tell me whether the Abbe Cceur is young umiWl 

D 



50 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

yet not intemperate ; but he decidedly appealed more to the hearts 
of his hearers than to their understandings ; and it was their hearts 
that answered him, for many of them wept plenteously. 

A great number of priests were present at this sermon, who 
were all dressed in their full clerical habits, and sat in places re- 
served for them immediately in front of the pulpit : they were con- 
sequently very near us, and we had abundant opportunity to remark 
the traces of that march of mind which is doing so many won- 
drous works upon earth. 

Instead of the tonsure which we have been used to see, certainly 
with some feeling of reverence — for it was often shorn into the 
very centre of crisped locks, while their raven black or shining 
chestnut still spoke of youth that scrupled not to sacrifice its come- 
liness to a feeling of religious devotion ; — instead of this, we now 
saw unshaven crowns, and more than one pair of flourishing/a- 
voris, nourished, trained, and trimmed evidently wath the nicest 
care, though a stiff three-cornered cowl in every instance hung 
behind the rich and waving honours of the youthful head. 

The effect of this strange mixture is very singular. But not- 
withstanding this bold abandonment of priestly costume among 
the junior clergy, there were, in the long double row of anointed 
heads which faced the pulpit, some exceedingly line studies for an 
artist ; and wherever the offending Adam was subdued by years, 
nothing could be in better keeping than the countenances, and the 
sacred garb of those to whom they belonged. Similar causes 
will, I suppose, at all times produce similar effects ; and it is 
therefore that among the twenty priests at St. Roch in 1 835, I 
seemed to recognise the originals of many a holy head, with which 
the painters of Italy, Spain, and Flanders have made me familiar. 

The contrast furnished by the deep-set eyes, and the fine severe 
expression of some of these consecrated brows, to the light, airy 
elegance of the pretty women around them, was sufficiently stri- 
king ; and, together with the mellow light of the shaded windows, 
and the lofty spaciousness of the noble church, formed a spectacle 
highly picturesque and impressive. 

After the sermon was over, and while the gayly-habited congre- 
gation fluttered away through the different doors hke so many 
butterflies hastening to meet returning sunshine, we amused our- 
selves by wandering round the church. It is magnificently large 
for a parish church ; but, excepting in some of the little chapels, 
we found not much to admire. 

That very unrighteous old churchman, the Abbe Dubois, has 
a fine monument there, restored from Les Petits Augustins ; and 
a sort of marble medallion, bearing the head of the immortal Cor- 
neille — immortal despite M. Victor Hugo — is also restored, and 
placed against one of the heavy columns of, I thiiik, the centre 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 51 

aisle. Bui we paused longest in a little chapel behind the altar 

not the middle one, with its well-managed glory of crimson light, 
though that is very beautiful ; but in the one to the right of it, 
which contains a sculptured Calvary. It is, I believe, only one 
of les stations, of which twelve are to be found in different parts 
of the church ; but it has a charm — seen as we saw it, with a 
strong effect of accidental light, bringing forward the delicate 
figure of the adoring Magdalene, and leaving the Saviour in the 
dark shadow and repose of death — that sets at defiance all the 
connoisseurship of art, and, taking from you all faculty to judge, 
leaves only the power to feel. Under these circumstances, wheth- 
er quite delusive or not I hardly know, this group appeared to us 
one of exceeding beauty. 

The high altar of St. Roch, and the extremity of the carpeted 
space enclosed round it, are most lavishly, beautifully, and fra- 
grantly adorned with flowers of the choicest kind, all flourishing 
in the fullest bloom in boxes and vases. It is the only instance 
I remember in which the perfume of this most fair and holy deco- 
ration actually pervaded the church. They certainly offer the 
sweetest incense that can be found to breathe its grateful life and 
spirit out on any altar ; and were it not for the graceful swinging 
of the censers, which very particularly pleases my eye, I would 
recommend to the Roman Catholic church henceforth an economy 
of their precious gums, and advise them to offer the incense of 
flowers intheir stead. ' 

Before we left the church, about a hundred and fifty boys and 
girls, from ten to fourteen years of age, assembled to be catechised 
by a young priest, who received them behind the Lady Chapel. 
His manner was familiar, caressing, and kind, and his waving hair 
fell about his ears like the picture of a young St. John. 



LETTER IX. 

Literature of the Revolutionary School — Its low estimation in France. 

Among many proofs of attentive kindness which I have re- 
ceived from my Paris friends, their care to furnish me with a 
variety of modern publications is not the least agreeable. 

One fancies everywhere that it is easy, by the help of a circu- 
lating library, to know tolerably well what is going on at Paris : 
but this is a mighty fond delusion ; though sometimes, perhaps, 
our state may be the more gracious from our ignorance. 

D2 



52 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

One gentleman, to whom I owe much gratitude for the active 
good-nature with which he seems wilUng to assist me in all my 
researches, has given me much curious information respecting the 
present state of literature and literary men in France. 

In this department of human greatness, at least, those of the 
party which has lost power and place have a most decided pre- 
eminence. Would it be a pun to say that there is poetical justice 
in this ? ^ 

1 The active, busy, bustling politicians of the hour have suc- 
ceeded in thrusting every thing else out of place, and themselves 
into it. One dynasty has been overthrown, and another estab- 
lished ; old laws have been abrogated, and hundreds of new ones 
framed ; hereditary nobles have been disinherited, and little men 
made great ; — but, amid this plenitude of destructiveness, they 
have not yet contrived to make any one of the puny literary repu- 
tations of the day weigh down the renown of those who have 
never lent their voices to the cause of treason, regicide, rebellion, 
or obscenity. The literary reputations both of Chateaubriand and 
Lamartine stand higher, beyond all comparison, than those of any 
other living French authors : yet the first, with all his genius, has 
often suffered his imagination to run riot, and the last has only 
given to the public the leisure of his literary life. But both of 
them are men of honour and principle, as well as men of genius ; 
and it comforts one's human nature to see that these qualities will 
keep themselves aloft, despite whatever squally winds may blow, 
or blustering floods assail them. That both Chateaubriand and 
Lamartine belong rather to the imaginative than to the positif 
class, cannot be denied ; but they are renowned throughout the 
world, and France is proud of them. 

The most curious literary speculations, however, suggested by 
the present state of letters in this country, are not respecting 
authors such as these : they speak for themselves, and all the 
world knows them and their position. The circumstance deci- 
dedly the most worthy of remark in the literature of France, at the 
present time, is the effect which the last revolution appears to 
have produced. With the exception of history, to which both 
Thiers and Mignet have added something that may live, notwith- 
standing their very defective philosophy, no single work has 
appeared since the revolution of 1830, which has obtained a sub- 
stantial, elevated, and generally acknowledged reputation for any 
author unknown before that period : not even among all the un- 
bridled ebullitions of imagination, though restrained neither by 
decorum, principle, nor taste — not even here (excepting from one 
female* pen, which might become, were it the pleasure of the 
hand that wields it, the first now extant in the world of fiction), 

* G. Sand. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 53 

has any thing appeared likely to survive its author ; nor is there 
any writer who, during the same period, has raised himself to that 
station in society, by means of his literary productions, which is 
so universally accorded to all who have acquired high literary 
celebrity in any country. 

The name of M. Guizot was too well known before the revo- 
lution for these observations to have any reference to him ; and 
however much he may have distinguished himself since July, 
1830, his reputation was made before. There are, however, little 
writers in prodigious abundance ; and though as perfectly sure 
of the truth of what I have here stated as that I am alive to write 
it, I should expect a terrible riot about my ears, could such words 
be heard by the swarm of tiny geniuses that settle in clusters, 
some on the newspapers, some on the theatres, and some on the 
busy little printing-press of the tale-tellers — could they catch me, 
I am sure I should be stung to death. 

How well I can fancy the clamour ! . . . " Infamous libeller !" 
cries one ; " have not I achieved a reputation ? Do I not receive 
yearly some hundreds of francs for my sublime familiarity with 
sin and misery ? and are not my works read by ' Young France' 
with ecstasy ? Is not this fame ?" — " And I," says another ; " is 
it of such as I and my contemporary fellow-labourers in the vast 
field of new-ploughed speculation that you speak ?" — " What call 
you reputation, woman ?" says a third : " do not the theatres over- 
flow when I send murder, lust, and incest on the stage, to witch 
the world with wondrous wickedness ?" — " And I, too," groans 
another ; " am I not famous ? Are not my delicious tales of 
unschooled nature in the hands of every freeborn youth and 
tender maid in this our regenerated Athens ? Is not this fame, 
infamous slanderer ?" 

Were I obliged to answer all this, I could only say, "Arrangez- 
vous, canaille ! If you call this fame, take it, try it, make the 
most of it, and see where you will be some dozen years hence." 

Notwithstanding this extraordinary lack of great abiUty, how- 
ever, there never, I believe, was any period in which the printing- 
presses of France worked so hard as at present. The revolution 
of 1830 seems to have set all the minor spirits in motion. There 
is scarcely a boy so insignificant, or a workman so unlearned, as 
to doubt his having the power and the right to instruct the world. 
" Every breathing soul in Paris took a part in this glorious strug- 
gle," says the recording newspaper ; — " Yes, all !" echoes the 
smutched mechanic, snorting and snuffing the air with the intoxi- 
cating consciousness of imputed power ; — " Yes !" answer the 
galopins, one and all, " it is we, it is we !" And then, like the 
restless witches on the barren heath that their breath has blasted, 
the great reformers rouse themselves again, and looking from the 



'64 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

mischief they have done to the still worse that remains behind, 
they mutter prophetically, " We'll do— we'll do— we'll do !" 

To me, I confess, it is perfectly astonishing that any one can 
be found to class the writers of this restless clique as " the 
literary men of France." Yet it has been done ; and it is not 
till the effects of the popular comnaotion which brought them 
into existence shall have fully subsided, that the actual state of 
French literature can be fairly ascertained. 

Beranger was not the production of that whirlwind: but, in 
truth, let him sing what or when he will, the fire of genuine 
poetic inspiration must perforce flash across the thickest mist that 
false principles can raise around him. He is but a meteor per- 
haps, but a very bright one, and must shine, though his path lie 
among unwholesome exhalations and most dangerous pitfalls. 
But he cannot in any way be quoted as one of the newborn race 
whose claim to genuine fame I have presumed to doubt. 

That flashes of talent, sparkles of wit, and bursts of florid elo- 
quence are occasionally heard, seen, and felt, even from these, is, 
however, certain : it could hardly be otherwise. But they blaze, 
and go out. The oil which feeds the lamp of revolutionary ge- 
nius is foul, and such noxious vapours rise with the flame as must 
needs check its brightness. 

Do not, however, beheve me guilty of such presumption as to 
give you my own unsupported judgment as to the position which 
this " new school" (as the decousu folks always call themselves) ' 
hold in the public esteem. Such a judgment could be little worth 
if unsupported ; but my opinion on this subject is, on the con- 
trary, the result of careful inquiry among those who are most 
competent to give information respecting it. 

When the names of such as are best known among this class 
of authors are mentioned in society, let the politics of the circle 
be what they may, they are constantly spoken of as a Paria caste 
that must be kept apart. 

" Do you know ?" has been a question I have repeat- 
edly asked respecting a person whose name is cited in England 
as the most esteemed French writer of the age, — and so cited, 
moreover, to prove the low standard of French taste and principle. 

" No, madam," has been invariably the cold reply. 

" Or ?" 

" No. He is not in society." 

"Or ?" 

" Oh no ! His works live an hour (too long !) and are forgotten." 

Should I therefore, my friend, return from France with a high- 
er idea of its good taste and morality than I had when I entered 
it, think not that my own standard of what is right has been low- 
ered, but only that I have had the pleasure of finding it differed 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 55 

much less than I expected from that of our agreeable and hardly- 
judged neighbours on this side of the water. But I shall probably 
recur to this subject again ; and so, for the present, farewell ! 



LETTER X. 

Longchamps— The " Three Hours' Agony" at St. Eoch— Sermons on the Gospel of 
Good-Friday — Prospects of the Catholics — O'Connell. 

I DARE say you may know, my friend, though I did not, that 
the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of Passion-week are yearly 
set apart by the Parisians for a splendid promenade in carriages, 
on horseback, and on foot, to a part of the Bois de Boulogne called 
Longchamps. What the origin could be of so gay and brilliant 
an assemblage of people and equipages, evidently coming together 
to be stared at and to stare, on days so generally devoted to reli- 
gious exercises, rather puzzled me ; but I have obtained a most 
satisfactory explanation, which, in the hope of your ignorance, I 
will communicate. The custom itself, it seems, is a sort of reli- 
gaous exercise ; or, at any rate, it was so at the time of its insti- 
tution. 

When the beau monde of Paris first adopted the practice of re- 
pairing to Longchamps during these days of penitence and prayer, 
a convent stood there, whose nuns were celebrated for performing 
the solemn services appointed for the season with peculiar piety 
and effect. They sustained this reputation for many years ; and 
for many years all who could find admittance within their church 
thronged to hear their sweet voices. 

This convent was destroyed at the revolution {par excellence), 
but the horses and carriages of Paris still continue to move for ev- 
ermore in the same direction when the last three days of Lent 
arrive. 

The cavalcade assembled on this occasion forms an extremely 
pretty spectacle, rivalling a spring Sunday in Hyde Park as to the 
number and elegance of the equipages, and greatly exceeding it in 
the beauty and extent of the magnificent road on which they show 
themselves. Though the attending this congregation of wealth, 
rank, and fashion is still called " going to Longchamps," the evo- 
lutions of the company, whether in carriages, on horseback, or on 
foot, are at present almost wholly confined to the noble avenue 
which leads from the entrance to the Champs Elysees up to the 
Barriere de I'Etoile. 

From about three till six, the whole of this ample space is 



66 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

crowded ; and I really had no idea that so many handsome, well- 
appointed equipages could be found collected together anywhere 
out of London. The royal family had several handsome carriages 
on the ground : that of the Duke of Orleans was particularly re- 
markable for the beauty of the horses, and the general elegance 
of the " turn-out." 

The ministers of state, and all the foreign legations, did honour 
to the occasion ; most of them having very complete equipages, 
chasseurs of various plumage, and many with a set of four beau- 
tiful horses really well harnessed. Many private individuals, also, 
had. carriages which were handsome enough, together with their 
elegant lading, greatly to increase the general brilliancy of the 
scene. 

The only individual, however, except the Duke of Orleans, who 
had two carriages on the ground, two feathered chasseurs, and 
twice two pair of richly-harnessed steeds, was a certain Mr. Thorn, 
an American merchant, whose vast wealth, and still more vast ex- 
penditure, are creating considerable consternation among his sober- 
minded countrymen in Paris. We were told that the exuberance 
of this gentleman's transatlantic taste was such, and such was the 
vivacity of his inventive fancy, that during the three days of the 
Longchamps promenade he appeared on the ground each day with 
different liveries ; having, as it should seem, no particular family 
reasons for preferring any one set of colours to another. 

The ground was sprinkled, and certainly greatly adorned, by 
many very elegant-looking Englishmen on horseback ; the pretty 
caprioles, sleek skins, and well-managed capers of that prettiest 
of creatures, a high-bred English saddle-horse, being as usual 
among the most attractive parts of the show. Nor was there any 
deficiency of Frenchmen, with very handsome montures, to com- 
plete the spectacle ; while the ample space under the trees on 
either side was crowded with thousands of smart pedestrians ; the 
whole scene being one vast moving mass of pomp and pleasure. 

Nevertheless, the weather on the first of the three days was very 
far from favourable : the wind was so bitterly cold that I coun- 
termanded the carriage I had ordered, and instead of going to 
Longchamps, we actually sat shivering over the fire at home ; in- 
deed, before three o'clock, the ground was perfectly covered with 
snow. The next day promised something better, and we ventured 
So emerge : but the spectacle was really vexatious ; many of the 
carriages being open, and the shivering ladies attired in all the 
light and floating drapery of spring costume. For it is at Long- 
champs that all the fashions of the coming season are exhibited ; 
and no one can tell, however fashion-wise she be, what bonnet, 
scarf, or shawl, or even what prevailing colour, is to be worn in 
Paris throughout the year, till this decisive promenade be over. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 57 

Accordingly the milliners had done their duty, and, in fact, had far 
outstripped the spring. But it was sad to see the beautiful bunches 
of lilach, and the graceful, flexible laburnums — each a wonder of art 
— twisted and tortured, bending and breaking, before the wind. It 
really seemed as if the lazy Spring, vexed at the pretty mimicry of 
blossoms she had herself failed to bring, sent this inclement blast 
on purpose to blight them. Every thing went wrong. The ten- 
der teinted ribands were soon dabbled in a driving sleet ; while 
feathers, instead of wantoning, as it was intended they should do, 
on the breeze, had to fight a furious battle with the gale. 

It was not, therefore, till the following day — the last of the three 
appointed — that Longchamps really showed the brilliant assem- 
blage of carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians that I have described 
to you. Upon this last day, however, though it was still cold for 
the season — (England would have been ashamed of such a 17th 
of April) — the sun did come forth, and smiled in such a sort as 
greatly to comfort the pious pilgrims. 

We remained, like ail the rest of Paris, driving up and down in 
the midst of the pretty crowd till six, when they gradually began 
to draw off, and all the world went home to dinner. 

The early part of this day, which was Good-Friday, had been 
very differently passed. The same beautiful and solemn music 
which formerly drew all Paris to the Convent in the Bois de Bou- 
logne, is now performed in several of the churches. We were 
recommended to hear the choir of St. Roch ; and it was cer- 
tainly the most impressive service at which I was ever present. 

There is much wisdom in thus giving to music an important part 
in the public ceremonies of religion. Nothing commands and en- 
chains the attention with equal power : the ear may be deaf to elo- 
quence, and the thoughts may often grovel earthward, despite all 
the efforts of the preacher to lead them up to heaven ; but few will 
find it possible to escape from the effect of music ; and when it is 
of such a character as that performed in the Roman Catholic Church 
on Good-Friday, it can hardly be that the most volatile and indif- 
ferent listener should depart unmoved. 

This service was advertised as "The Three Hours' Agony." 
The crowd assembled to listen to it was immense. It is impos- 
sible to speak too highly of the composition of the music ; it is 
conceived in the very highest tone of sublimity ; and the deeply 
effective manner of its performance recalled to me an anecdote I 
have heard of some young organist, who, having accompanied an 
anthem in a manner which appeared greatly superior to that of the 
usual performer, was asked if he had not made some alteration in 
the composition. " No," he replied, " I have not ; but I always 
read the words when I play." 

So, I should think, did those who performed the sei^vices at St 



58 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Roch on Good-Friday ; and nothing can be imagined more touch- 
ing and effective than the manner in which the whole of these stri- 
king ceremonies were performed and arranged there. 

Tlie awful gospel of the day furnished a theme for the impas- 
sioned eloquence of several successive preachers ; one or two of 
whom were wonderfully powerful in their manner of recounting 
the dreadful narrative. They were all quite young men ; but they 
went through the whole of the appalling history with such deep 
solemnity, such strength of imagery and vehemence of eloquence, 
as to produce prodigious effect. 

At intervals, while the exhausted preachers reposed, the organ, 
with many stringed instruments, and a choir of exquisite voices, 
performed the same gospel, in a manner that made one's whole soul 
thrill and quiver within one. The suffering — the submission — the 
plaintive yet sublime " It is finished !" and the convulsive burst of 
indignant nature that followed, showing itself in thunder, hail, and 
earthquake, were all brought before the mind with most miraculous 
power. I have been told since, that the services at Notre Dame 
on that day were finer still ; but I really find some difficulty in be- 
lieving that this is possible. 

During these last and most solemn days of Lent, I have been 
endeavouring, by every means in my power, to discover how much 
fasting, of any kind, was going on. If they fast at all, it is cer- 
tainly performed in most strict obedience to the very letter of the 
gospel : for, assuredly, they " appear not unto men to fast." Every 
thing goes on as gayly as if it were the season of the carnival. The 
restaurans reek with the savoury vapour of a hundred dishes ; the 
theatres are opened, and as full as the churches ; invitations cease 
not; and I can in no direction perceive the slightest symptom of 
being aniong a Roman Catholic population during a season of pen- 
itence. 

And yet, contradictory as the statement must appear, I am 
deeply convinced that the clergy of the church of Rome feel more 
hope of recovered power fluttering at their hearts now, than they 
have done at any time during the last half century. Nor can I 
think they are far wrong in this. The share which the Roman 
Catholic priests of this our day are said to have had in the Bel- 
gian revolution, and the part, more remarkable still, which the 
same race are now performing in the opening scenes of the fearful 
struggle which threatens England, have given a new impulse to 
the ambition of Rome and of her children. One may read it in 
the portly bearing of her youthful priests, — one may read it in the 
deep-set meditative eye of those who are older. It is legible in 
their bran-new vestments of gold and silver tissue ; it is legible 
in the costly decorations of their renovated altars ; and deep, deep, 
deep is the policy which teaches them to recover with a gentle 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 59 

hand that whicli they have lost by a grasping one. How well 
can I fancy that, in their secret synods, the favourite text is, " No 
man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment ; for that 
which is put in to fill it up, taketh from the garment, and the rent 
is made worse." Were they a whit less cautious, they must fail 
at once ; but they tickle their converts before they think of con- 
vincing them. It is for this that the pulpits are given to young 
and eloquent men, who win the eye and ear of their congregations 
long before they find out to what point they wish to lead them. 
But while the young men preach, the old men are not idle ; there 
are rumours of new convents, new monasteries, new orders, new 
miracles, and of new converts, in all directions. This wily, 
worldly, tranquil-seeming, but most ambitious sect, having in 
many quarters joined themselves to the cause of democracy, sit 
quietly by, looking for the result of their work, and watching, like 
a tiger that seems to doze, for the moment when they may avenge 
themselves for the long fast from power, during which they have 
been gnawing their heart-strings. 

But they now hail the morning of another day. I would that 
all English ears could hear, as mine have done, the prattle that 
prophesies the downfall of our national church as a thing certain 
as rain after long drought ! I would that English ears could hear, 
as mine have done, the name of O'Connell uttered as that of a 
new apostle, and his bold bearding of those who yet raise their 
voices in defence of the faith their fathers gave them, triumph- 
antly quoted in proof of the growing influence both of himself and 
his popish creed, — which are, in truth, one and inseparable ! But 
forgive me ! — all this has little to do with my subject, and it is, 
moreover, a theme I had much belter not meddle with. I cannot 
touch it lightly, for my heart is heavy when I turn to it ; I cannot 
treat it powerfully, for, alas ! I have no strength but to lament, 

" He ! que puis-je au milieu de ce peuple abattu ? 
Benjamin est sans force, et Juda sans vertu." 



LETTER XL 

- Trial-chamber at the Luxembourg— Institute— M. Mignet— Concert Musard. 

As a great and especial favour, we have been taken to see tne 
new chamber that has been erected at the Luxembourg for the 
trial of the political prisoners. The appearance of the exterior is 
very handsome, and though built wholly of wood, it corresponds 
perfectly, to all outward seeming, with the old palace. The rich 



60 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

and massive style of architecture is imitated to perfection ; the 
heavy balustrades, the gigantic bassreliefs, are all vast, solid, and 
magnificent ; and vv^hen it is stated that the whole thing has been 
completed in the space of two months, one is tempted to believe 
that Aladdin has turned doctrinaire, and rubbed his lamp most 
dihgently in the service of the state. 

The trial-chamber is a noble room ; but from the great number 
of prisoners, and greater still of witnesses expected to be exam- 
ined, the space left for the public is but small. Prudence, per- 
haps, may have had as much to do with this as necessity : nor 
can we much wonder if the peers of France should desire to have 
as little to do with the Paris mob upon this occasion as possible. 

I remarked that considerable space was left for passages, ante- 
rooms, surroundings, and outposts of all sorts ; — an excellent ar- 
rangement, the wisdom of which cannot be questioned, as the at- 
tendance of a large armed force must be indispensable. In fact, 
I believe it ever has been and ever will be found, that troops fur- 
nish the only means of keeping a remarkably free people in order. 

It was, however, very comforting and satisfactory to hear the 
manner in which the distinguished and agreeable individual who 
had procured us the pleasure of seeing this building, discoursed 
of the business which was to be carried on there. 

There is a quiet steadiness and confidence in their own strength 
among these doctrinaires, that seems to promise well for the last- 
ing tranquillity of the country ; nor does it impeach either their 
wisdom or sincerity, if many among them adhere, heart and hand, 
to the government, though they might have better liked a white 
ihan a tri-coloured- banner to wave over the palace of its head. 
Whatever the standers-by may wish or feel about future struggles 
and future changes, I think it is certain that no Frenchman who 
desires the prosperity of his country can, at the present moment, 
wish for any thing but a continuance of the tranquillity she actu- 
ally enjoys.. 

If, indeed, democracy were gaining ground, — if the frightful po- 
litical fallacies, among which the very young and the very igno- 
rant are so apt to bewilder themselves, were in any degree to be 
traced in the policy pursued by the existing government, — then 
would the question be wholly changed, and every honest man in 
full possession of his senses would feel himself called upon to 
stay the plague with all his power and might. But the very re- 
verse of all this is evidently the case ; and it may be doubted if 
any sovereign in Europe has less taste for license and misrule 
than King Louis Philippe. Be very sure that it is not to him 
that the radicals of any land must look for patronage, encourage- 
ment, or support : they will not find it. 

After quitting the Luxembourg, we went to the bureau of the 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. ' 61 

secretary at the Institute, to request tickets for an annual sitting 
of the five Academies, which took place yesterday. They were 
very obligingly accorded — (0 that our institutions, our academies, 
our lectures, were thus liberally arranged !) — and yesterday we 
passed two very agreeable hours in the place to which they ad- 
mitted us. 

I wish that the Polytechnic School, when they took a fancy for 
changing the ancient regimes of France, had included the uniform 
of the Institute in their proscriptions. The improvement would 
have been less doubtful than it is respecting some other of their 
innovations ; for what can be said in defence of a set of learned 
academicians, varying in age from light and slender thirty to mas- 
sive and protuberant fourscore, wearing, one and all, a fancy blue 
dress-coat, " embroidered o'er with leaves of myrtle ?" It is 
really a proof that very good things were said and done at this 
sitting, when I declare, that my astonishment at the Corydon-like 
costume was forgotten vvithin the first half hour. 

We first saw the distribution of the prizes, and then heard one 
or two members speak, or rather read their compositions. But 
the great fete of the occasion was heai^ing a discourse pronounced 
by M. Mignet. This, gentleman is too celebrated not to have ex- 
cited in us a very earnest wish to hear him ; and never was ex- 
pectation more agreeably gratified. Combined with the advanta- 
ges of a remarkably fine face and person, M. Mignet has a tone 
of voice and play of countenance sufficient of themselves to se- 
cure the success of an orator. But on this occasion he did not 
trust to these ; his discourse was every way admirable ; subject, 
sentiment, composition, and delivery, all excellent. 

He had chosen for his theme the history of Martin Luther's 
appearance before the Diet at Worms ; and the manner in which 
he treated it surprised as much as it delighted me. Not a single 
trait of that powerful, steadfast, unbending character, which .re- 
stored light to our religion and freedom to the mind of man, es- 
caped him : it was a mental portrait, painted with the boldness of 
outline, breadth of light, and vigour of colouring, which mark the 
hand of a consummate master. 

But was it a Roman Catholic who pronounced this discourse ? 
Were they Roman Catholics who filled every corner of the the- 
atre, and listened to him with attention so unbroken, and admira- 
tion so undisguised ? I know not. But, for myself, I can truly 
declare, that my Protestant and reformed feelings were never more 
gratified than by listening to this eloquent history of the proudest 
moment of our great apostle's life, pronounced in the centre of 
Cardinal Mazarin's palace. The concluding words of the dis- 
course were as follows : — 

" Somme pendant quatre ans de se soumettre, Luther, pendant 



62 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

quatre ans, dit non. II avait dit non au legal ; il avait dit non au 
pape ; il dit non h I'empereur. Dans ce non heroi'que et fecond 
se trouvait la liberie du monde."* 

Another discourse was announced to conclude the sitting of the 
day. But when M. Mignet retired, no one appeared to take his 
place ; and, after waiting for a few minutes, the numerous and 
very fashionable-looking crowd dispersed themselves. - 

1 recollected the anecdote told of the first representation of the 
"Partie de Chasse de Henri Quatre," when the overture of Mehul 
produced such an effect that the audience would not permit any 
thing else to be performed after il. The piece, therefore, was ?-e- 
?7iise, — and so was the harangue of the academician who was to 
follow M. Mignet. 

You will confess, I think, that we are not idle, when I tell you 
that, after all this, we went in the evening to Le Concert Musard. 
This is one of the pastimes to which we have hitherto had no 
parallel in London. At half past seven o'clock, you lounge into a 
fine, large, well-lighted room, which is rapidly filled with compa- 
ny ; a full and good orchestra give you during a couple of hours 
some of the best and most popular music of the season ; and then 
you lounge out again, in time to dress for a party, or eat ices at 
Torloni's, or soberly to go home for a domestic tea-drinking 
and early rest. For this concert you pay a franc ; and the 
humble price, together with the style of toilet (every lady wear- 
ing a bonnet and shawl), might lead the uninitiated to suppose that 
il was a recreation prepared for the heau monde of the Faubourg ; 
but the long line of private carriages that occupies the street at 
the conclusion of it, shows that, simple and unpretending as is its 
style, this concert has attractions for the best company in Paris. 

The easy entree to il reminded me of the theatres of Germany, 
I remarked many ladies coming in, two or three together, unattend- 
ed hy any gentleman. Between the acts, the company prome- 
naded round the room, parties met and joined, and altogether it 
appeared to us a very agreeable mode of gratifying that French 
necessity of amusing one's self out of one's own house, which 
seems contagious in the very air of Paris. 

* Summoned, time and again during four years, to appear before his judges, for four 
years his invariable answer was a refusal. He answered " no" to the legate — " no" to 
the pope— "no" to the emperor. In that heroic and most fruitful "no" was wrapped up 
the liberty of the world. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 63 



LETTER XII. 

Easter-Sunday at Notre Dame — Archbishop — View of Paris— Victor Hugo— Hotel Keu 

— Mr. Jefferson. 

It was long ago decided in a committee of the whole house, 
that on Easter-Sunday we should attend high mass at Notre Dame. 
I shall not soon forget the spectacle that greeted us on entering. 
Ten thousand persons, it was said, were on that day assembled in 
the church ; and its dimensions are so vast, that I have no doubt 
the statement was correct, for it was crowded from floor to roof. 
The effect of the circular gallery, that at mid-height encompasses 
the centre aisle, following as it does the graceful sweep of the 
chapel behind the altar, and filled, row after row, with gayly-dressed 
company, up, as it seemed, almost to the groining of the roof, was 
beautiful. The chairs, on this occasion, were paid for in propor- 
tion to the advantageousness of the position in which they stood, 
and by disbursing an extra franc or two we obtained very good 
places. The mass was performed with great splendour. The 
dresses of the archbishop and his train were magnificent ; and 
when this splendid, princely-looking personage, together with his 
court of dignitaries and priests, paraded the Host round the church 
and up the crowded aisle, spite of the close-wedged throng, they 
looked like a stream of liquid gold, that by its own weight made 
way through every obstacle. The archbishop is a mild and ami- 
able-looking man, and ceased not to scatter blessings from his 
lips, and sprinkle safety from his finger's-ends upon the admiring 
people, as slowly and gracefully he passed among them. 

The latter years of this prelate's life have been signalized by 
some remarkable changes. He has seen the glories and the peni- 
tences of his church alike the favourite occupation of his king ; — 
he has seen that king and his highest nobles walking in holy pro- 
cession through the streets of Paris; — he has seen that same king 
banished from his throne and his country, a proscribed and melan- 
choly exile, while the pomp and parade of his cherished faith were 
forbidden to offend the people's eyes by any longer pouring forth 
its gorgeous superstitions into the streets ; — he has seen his own 
consecrated palace razed to its foundation, and its very elements 
scattered to the winds : — and now, this self-same prelate sees him- 
self again well received at the court whence Charles Dix was 
banished ; and, stranger still, perhaps, he sees his startled flock 
once more assembling round him, quietly and silently, but stead- 



64 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

ily and in earnest ; while he who, within five short years, was 
trembling for his life, now lifts his head again, and not only in 
safety, but, with all his former power and pride of place, is permit- 
ted to 

" Chanter les ordmus, faire des processions, 
Et repandre a grands flots les benedictions." 

It is true, indeed, that there are no longer any Roman Catholic 
processions to be seen in the streets of Paris ; but, if we look 
within the churches, we find that the splendour concentrated 
there has lost nothing of its impressive sumptuousness by thus 
changing the scene of its display. 

The service of this day, as far as the music was concerned, 
was in my opinion infinitely less impressive than that of Good- 
Friday at St. Roch. This doubtless arose in a great degree from 
the style of composition ; but I suspect, moreover, that my imagi- 
nation was put out of humour by seeing about fifty fiddlers, with 
every appearance of being (what they actually were) the orches- 
tra of the opera, performing from a space enclosed for them at 
the entrance of the choir. The singing men and boys were also 
stationed in the same unwonted and unecclesiastical place ; and 
though some of those hired for the occasion had very fine Italian 
voices, they had all the air of singing without " reading the 
words ;" and, on the whole, my ear and my fancy were disap- 
pointed. 

Victor Hugo's description of old Paris, as seen from the towers 
of Notre Dame, sent us labouring to their summit. The state 
of the atmosphere was very favourable, and I was delighted to 
find that the introduction of coal, rapid as its progress has lately 
been, has not yet tinged the bright clear air sufficiently to prevent 
this splendid panorama from being distinctly seen to its remotest 
edge. That impenetrable mass of dun, dull smoke, that we look 
down upon whenever a mischievous imp of curiosity lures us to 
the top of any dome, tower, or obelisk in London, can hardly fail 
of making one remember every weary step which led to the 
profitless elevation ; but one must be tired indeed to remember 
fatigue while looking down upon the bright, warm, moving minia- 
ture spread out below the towers of Notre Dame. 

What an intricate world of roofs it is !- — and how mystically 
incomprehensible are the ins and outs, the bridges and the islands, 
of the idle Seine ! A raft, caught sight of at intervals, bear- 
ing wood or wine ; a floating wash-house, with its line of 
bending naiads, looking like a child's toy with figures all of a 
row ; and here and there a floating bath, — are all this river shows 
of its power to aid and assist the magnificent capital which has 
so strangely chosen to stretch herself along its banks. When 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 65 

one thinks of the forest of masts which we see covering whole 
miles of extent in London, it seems utterly unintelligible how that 
which is found needful for the necessities of one great city should 
appear so perfectly unnecessary for another. 

Victor Hugo's picture of the scene he has fancied beneath the 
towers of Notre Dame in the days of his Esmeralda is sketched 
with amazing spirit ; though probably Paris was no more like the 
pretty panorama he makes of it than Timbuctoo. I heartily wish, 
however, that he would confine himself to the representation of 
still-life, and let his characters be all of innocent bricks and mortar : 
for even though they do look shadowy and somewhat doubtful in 
the distance, they have infinitely more nature and truth than can 
be found among all his horrible imaginings concerning his fellow- 
creatures. 

His description of the old church itself, too, is delicious : for 
though it has little of architectural reality or strict graphic fidelity 
about it, there is such a powerful air of truth in every word he 
says respecting it, that one looks out and about upon the rugged 
stones, and studies every angle, buttress, and parapet, with the 
lively interest of old acquaintance. 

I should like to have a legend, as fond and lingering in it# de- 
scriptions, attached to some of our glorious and mysterious old 
Gothic cathedrals at home. This sort of reading gives a pleasure 
in which imagination and reality are very happily blended ; and I 
can fancy nothing more agreeable than following an able romancer 
up and down, through and among, in and out, the gloomy, shad- 
owy, fanciful, unintelligible intricacies of such a structure. How 
well might Winchester, for instance, with its solemn crypts, its 
sturdy Saxon strength, its quaintly-coffined relics of royal bones, 
its Gothic shrines, its monumental splendour, and its stately magni- 
tude, furnish forth the material for some such spirit-stirring record ! 

Having spent an hour of firstrate interest and gratification in 
wandering inside and outside of this very magnificent church, we 
crossed the Place, or Parvis, of Notre Dame, to see the cele- 
brated hospital of Hotel Dieu. It is very particularly large, 
clean, airy, and well ordered in every way ; and I never saw sick 
people look less miserable than some scores of men and women 
did, tucked snugly up in their neat little beds, and most of them 
with a friend or relative at their side to console or amuse them. 

The access to the wards of this building is as free as that into 
a public bazar; but there is one caution used in the admission 
of company, which, before I understood it, puzzled me greatly. 
There are three doors at the top of the fiine flight of steps which 
leads to the building. The centre one is used only as an exit ; 
at the other two are placed guards, one a male, the other a female. 
Through these side-doors all who enter must pass — the men on 

E 



66 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

one side, the women on the other; and all must submit to be 
pretty strictly examined, to see that they are conveying nothing 
either to eat or drink that might be injurious to the invalids. 

The covered bridge which opens from the back part of the 
Hotel Dieu, connecting VIsle de la Cite with the left bank of the 
Seine, with its light glass roof, and safe shelter from wind, dust, 
or annoyance of any kind, forms a delightful promenade for the 
convalescent. 

The evening of this day we spent at a soiree, where we met, 
among many other pleasant persons, a very sensible and gentle- 
manlike American. I had the pleasure of a long conversation 
with him, during which he said many things extremely worth 
listening' to. This gentleman has held many distinguished diplo- 
matic situations, appears to have acquired a great deal of general 
information, and, moreover, to have given much attention to the 
institutions and character of his own country. 

He told me that .Jefferson had been the friend of his early life ; 
that he knew his sentiments and opinions on all subjects intimately 
well, and much better than those who were acquainted with them 
no otherwise than by his published writings. He assured me 
most positively that Jefferson was not a democrat in principle, 
but believed it expedient to promulgate the doctrine, as the only 
one which could excite the general feeling of the people, and 
make them hang together till they should have acquired strength 
sufficient to be reckoned as one among the nations. He said that 
Jefferson's ulterior hope for America was, that she should, after 
having acquired this strength, give birth to men distinguished both 
by talent and fortune ; that when this happened, an enlightened 
and powerful aristocracy might be hoped for, without which he 
KNEW that no country could be really great or powerful. 

As I am assured that the word of this gentleman may be de- 
pended on, these observations — or rather, I should say, statements 
-—respecting Jefferson, appear to me worth noting. 



LETTER Xm. 

" Le Monomane." 

As a distinguished specimen of fashionable horror, I went last 
night to the Porte St. Martin, to see " The Monomane," a drama 
in five acts, from the pen of a M. Duveyrier. I hardly know 
whether to give you a sketch of this monstrous outrage against 
common sense or not ; but I think I will do so, because I flatter 
myself that no one will be silly enough to translate it into Eng- 
lish, or import it in any shape into England ; and, therefore, if I 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 67 

do not tell you something about it, you may chance to die without 
knowing to what prodigious lengths a search after absurdity may 
carry men. 

But first let me mention, as not the least extraordinary part ot 
the phenomenon, that the theatre was crowded from floor to roof, 
and that Shakspeare was never listened to with attention more 
profound. However, it does not follow that approval or admira- 
tion of any kind was either the cause or the effect of this silent 
contemplation of the scene : no one could be more devoted to the 
business of the hour than myself, but most surely this was not 
the result of approbation. 

If I am not very clear respecting the plot, you must excuse 
me, from my want of habitual expertness in such an analysis ; 
but the main features and characters cannot escape me. 

An exceedingly amiable and highly intellectual gentleman is 
the hero of this piece ; a part personated by a M. Lockroi with 
a degree of ability deserving a worthier employment. This 
amiable man holds at Colmar the office of procureiir du roi; and, 
from the habit of witnessing trials, acquires so vehement a pas- 
sion for the shedding of blood on the scaffold, that it amounts to 
a mania. To illustrate this singular trait of character, M. Bal- 
thazar develops his secret feelings in an opening speech to an 
intimate friend. In this speech, which really contains some very 
good lines, he dilates with much enthusiasm on the immense im- 
portance which he conceives to attach to the strict and impartial 
administration of criminal justice. No man could deliver himsell 
more judge-like and wisely ; but how or why such very rational 
and sober opinions should lead to an unbounded passion for blood, 
is very difficult to understand. 

The next scene, however, shows the procureur du roi hugging 
himself with a kind of mysterious rapture at the idea of an ap- 
proaching execution, and receiving with a very wild and mad-like 
sort of agony some attempts to prove the culprit innocent. The 
execution takes place ; and, after it is over, the innocence of the 
unfortunate victim is fully proved. 

The amiable and excellent procureur du roi is greatly moved 
at this ; but his repentant agony is soon walked off by a few well 
trod melodramatic turns up and down the stage ; and he goes on 
again, seizing with ecstasy upon every opportunity of bringing the 
guilty to justice. 

What the object of the author can possibly be in making out 
that a man is mad solely because he wishes to do his duty, I can- 
not even guess. It is difficult to imagine an honest-minded magis- 
trate uttering more commonplace, incontrovertible truths upon the 
painful duties of his station, than does this unfortunate gentleman. 

M. Victor Hugo, speaking of himself in one of his prefaces, 

E S 



68 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

says, " II (Victor Hugo) continuera done fermement ; et chaque 
fois qu'il croira necessaire de faire bien voir h tous, dans ses 
moindres details, une idee utile, une idee sociale, une idee huaiaine, 
il posera le theatre dessus comnne un verre grossissant."* 

It strikes me that M. Daveyrier, the ingenious author of the 
Monomane, must work upon the same principle, and that in this 
piece he thinks he has put a magnifying-glass upon " une idee so- 
ciale." 

But I must return to my analysis of this drama of five mortal 
acts. — After the execution, the real perpetrator of the murder, for 
which the unfortunate victim of legal enthusiasm has innocently 
suffered, appears on the scene. He is brought sick or wounded 
into the house of a physician, with whom the procureur du roi and 
his wife are on a visit. Balthazar sees the murderer conveyed to 
bed in a chamber that opens from that of his friend the doctor. 
He then goes to bed himself with his wife, and appears to have 
fallen asleep without delay, for we presently see him in this state 
come forth from his chamber upon a gallery, from whence a flight 
of stairs descends upon the stage. We see him walk down these 
stairs — take some instrument out of a case belonging to the doc- 
tor — enter the apartment where the murderer has been lodged — 
return — ^replace the instrument — wash his bloody hands, and wipe 
them upon a hand-towel — then reascend the staircase, and enter 
his lady's room at the top of it ; all of which is performed in the 
silence of profound sleep. 

The attention which hung upon the whole of this long silent 
scene was such, that one might have supposed the lives of the 
audience depended upon their not waking this murderous sleeper 
by any sound ; and the applause which followed the mute perform- 
ance, when once the awful procureur du roi was again safely lodg- 
ed in his chamber, was deafening. 

The following morning it is discovered that the sick stranger has 
been murdered ; and instantly the procureur du roi, with his usual 
ardour in discovering the guilty, sets most ably to work upon the 
investigation of every circumstance which may throw light upon 
this horrible transaction. Every thing, particularly the case of 
instruments, of which one is bloody, and the hand-towel found in 
his room, stained with the same accusing die — all tends to prove 
that the poor innocent physician is the murderer ; he is accordingly 
taken up, tried, and condemned. 

This unfortunate young doctor has an uncle, of the same learned 
profession, who is addicted to the science of animal magnetism. 
This gentleman having some suspicion that Balthazar is himself 

♦ Translation. — He will continue then firmly ; and every time that he shall think it 
necesaaiy to make visible to all, in its least details, a useful idea, a social idea, a humane 
idea, he will place upon it the theatre, as a magnifying-glass. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 69 

the guilty person, imagines a very cunning device by which he 
may be made to betray himself if guilty. He determines to prac- 
tise his magnetism upon him in full court while he is engaged in 
the duties of his high office, and flatters himself that he shall be 
able to throw him into a sleep or trance, in which state he may, par 
hasard, let out something of the truth. 

This admirable "contrivance answers perfectly. The attorney- 
general does fall into a most profound sleep the moment the old 
doctor begins his magnetizing manoeuvres, and in this state not 
only relates aloud every circumstance of the murder, but, to give 
this confession more sure effect, he writes it out fairly, and sets 
his name to it, being profoundly asleep the whole time. 

And here it is impossible to avoid remarking on the extreme ill 
fortune which attends the sleeping hours of this amiable attorney- 
general. At one time he takes a nap, and kills a man without 
knowing any thing of the matter ; and then, in a subsequent state 
of oblivion, he confesses it, still without knowing any thing of the 
matter. 

As soon as the unfortunate gentleman has finished the business 
for which he was put to sleep, he is awakened, and the paper is 
shown to him. He scruples not immediately to own his hand- 
writing, which, sleeping or waking, it seems, was the same ; but 
testifies the greatest horror and astonishment at the information the 
document contains, which was quite as unexpected to himself as 
to the rest of the company. 

His high office, however, we must presume, exempts him from 
all responsibility ; for the only result of the discovery is an ear- 
nest recommendation from his friends, particularly the old and 
young doctors, that he should travel for the purpose of recovering 
his spirits. 

There is a little episode, by the way, from which we learn, that 
once, in one of his alarming slumbers, this amiable but unfortunate 
man gave symptoms of wishing to murder his wife and child ; in 
consequence of which, it is proposed by the doctors that this tour 
for the restoration of his spirits should be made without them. To 
this separation Balthazar strongly objects, and tells his beautiful 
wife, with much tenderness, that he shall find it very dull with- 
out her. 

To this the lady, though naturally rather afraid of him, answers 
with great sweetness, that in that case she shall be extremely 
happy to' go with him ; adding, tenderly, that she would willingly 
die to prove her devotion. 

Nothing could be so unfortunate as this expression. At the 
bare mention of his hobby-horse, death, his malady revives, and 
he instantly manifests a strong inclination to murder her, — ^and 
ihis time without even the ceremony of going to sleep. 



70 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Big with the dariing thought, his eyes rolHng, his cheek pale, 
his bristUng hair on end, and the awful genius of Melodrame 
swelling in every vein, Balthazar seats himself on the sofa beside 
his trembling wife ; and, taking the comb out of her (Mademoi- 
selle Noblet's) beautiful hair, appears about to strangle her in the 
rope of jet that he pulls out to its utmost length, and twists, and 
twists, and twists, till one really feels a cold shiver from head to 
foot. But, at length, at the very moment when matters seem 
drawing to a close, the lady throws herself lovingly on his bosom, 
and his purpose changes, or at least, for a moment, seems to 
change, and he relaxes his hold. 

At this critical juncture the two doctors enter. Balthazar looks 
at them wildly, then at his wife, then at the doctors again, and 
finally tells them all that he must beg leave to retire for a few 
moments. He passes through the group, who look at him in 
mournful silence ; but, as he approaches the door, he utters the 
word " poison," then enters, and locks and bolts it after him. 

Upon this the lady screams, and the two doctors fly for a crow- 
bar. The door is burst open, and the procureur du roi comes 
forward, wide awake, but having swallowed the poison he had 
mentioned. 

This being " the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful 
history," the curtain falls upon the enthusiastic attorney-general 
as he expires in the arms of his wife and friends. 

We are always so apt, when we see any thing remarkably ab- 
surd abroad, to flatter ourselves with the belief that nothing like it 
exists at home, that I am almost afraid to draw a parallel between 
this inconceivable trash, and the very worst and vilest piece that 
ever was permitted to keep possession of the stage in England, 
lest some one better informed on the subject than myself should 
quote some British enormity unknown to me, and so prove my 
patriotic theory false. 

Nevertheless, I cannot quit the subject without saying, that, as 
far as my knowledge and belief go, English people never did sit 
by hundreds and listen patiently to such stuff as this. There is 
no very atrocious vice, no terrific wickedness, in the piece, as far 
as I could understand its recondite philosophy ; but its silliness 
surely possesses the silliness of a little child. The grimaces, the 
dumb show, the newly-invented passions, and the series of impos- 
sible events, which drag through these five longsome acts, seem 
to show a species of anomaly in the human mind that composed 
the piece, to which I imagine no parallel can be found on record. 

Is this the result of the march of mind ? — is it the fruit of that 
universal diffusion of knowledge which we are told is at work 
throughout the world, but most busily in France ?....! shall 
never understand the mystery, let me meditate upon it as long as 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 71 

I will. No ! never shall I understand how a French audience, 
lively, witty, acute, and prone to seize upon whatever is ridicu- 
lous, can thus sit, night after night, with profound gravity, and the 
highest apparent satisfaction, to enjoy the incredible absurdity of 
such a piece as " Le Monomane." 

There is one way, and one way only, in which the success of 
this drama can be accounted for intelligibly. May it not be, that 
" LES JEUNEs GENS," wantou in their power, have determined in 
merry mood to mystify their fellow-citizens by passing a favour- 
able judgment upon this tedious performance ? And may they not 
now be enjoying the success of their plot in ecstasies of private 
laughter, at seeing how meekly the dutiful Parisians go nightly 
to the Porte St. Martin, and sit in obedient admiration of what it 
has pleased their youthful tyrants to denominate " a fine drama?" 

But I must leave off guessing ; for, as the wise man saith, " the 
finding out of parables is a wearisome labour of the mind." 

Some critic, speaking of the new school of French dramatists, 
says that " they have heaved the ground under the feet of Racine 
and Corneille." If this indeed be so, the best thing that the 
lovers of tragedy can do is to sit at home, and wait patiently till 
the earth settles itself again from the shock of so deplorable an 
earthquake. That it will settle itself again I have neither doubt 
nor fear. Nonsense has nothing of immortality in its nature ; and 
when the storm which has scattered all this frothy scum upon us 
shall have fairly blown over and passed away, then I suspect that 
Corneille and Racine will still find solid standing-ground on the 
soil of France ; — nay, should they by chance find also that their 
old niches in the temple of her great men remain vacant, it is 
likely enough that they may be again invited to take possession 
of them ; and they may keep it too, perhaps, for a few more hun- 
dred years, with very little danger that any greater than they 
should arrive to take their places, 



LETTER XIV. 

The Gardens of the Tuileries—Legitimatist— Republican— Doctrinaire— Children- 
Dress of the Ladies— Of the Gentlemen— Black Hair— Unrestricted Admission— An- 
ecdote. 

• Is there any thing in the world that can be fairly said to resemble 
the Gardens of the Tuileries ? I should think not. It is a whole 
made up of so many strongly-marked and peculiar features, that 
it is not probable any other place should be found like it. To my 



72 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

fancy, it seems one of the most delightful scenes in the world; 
and I never enter there, though it is long since the enchantment of 
novelty made any part of the charm, without a fresh feeling of 
enjoyment. 

The locale itself, independent of the moving throng which for 
ever seems to dwell within it, is greatly to my taste : 1 love all the 
detail of its embellishment, and I dearly love the bright and hap- 
py aspect of the whole. But on this subject I know there are va- 
rious opinions : many talk with distaste of the straight lines, the 
clipped trees, the formal flower-beds, the ugly roofs, — nay, some 
will even abuse the venerable orange-trees themselves, because 
they grow in square boxes, and do not wave, their boughs in the 
breeze like so many ragged willow-trees. 

But I agree not with any one of these objections ; and should think 
it as reasonable, and in as good taste, to quarrel with Westminster 
Abbey because it did not look like a Grecian temple, as to find 
fault with the Gardens of the Tuilcries because they are arranged 
like French pleasure-grounds, and not like an English park. For 
my own part, I profess that I would not, if 1 had the power, 
change even in the least degree a single feature in this pleasant 
spot : enter it at what hour or at what point I will, it ever seems 
to receive me with smiles and gladness. 

We seldom suifer a day to pass without refreshing our spirits by 
sitting for a while amid its shades and its flowers. From the part 
of the town where we are now dwelling, the gate opposite the 
Place Vendome is our nearest entrance ; and perhaps from no 
point does the lively beauty of the whole scene show itself better 
than from beneath the green roof of the terrace-walk, to which this 
gate admits us. 

To the right, the dark mass of unshorn trees, now rich with the 
flowers of the horse-chestnut, and growing as boldly and as loftily 
as the most English-hearted gardener could desire, leads the eye 
through a very delicious " continuity of shade" to the magnificent 
gate that opens upon the Place Louis Quinze. To the left is the 
widely-spreading faqade of the Tuileries Palace, the ungraceful 
elevation of the pavilion roofs, welinigh forgotten, and quite atoned 
for by the beauty of the gardens at their feet. Then, just where the 
shade of the high trees ceases, and the bright blaze of sunshine 
begins, what multitudes of sweet flowers are seen blushing in its 
beams ! A universal lilach bloom seems at this season to spread 
itself over the whole space ; and every breeze that passes by 
comes to us laden with perfume. My daily walk is almost always 
the same, — I love it so well that I do not like to change it. Fol- 
lowing the shady terrace by which we enter to the point where it 
sinks down to the level of the magnificent esplanade in front of 
the palace, we turn to the right, and endure the splendid bright- 




T 73 



'836 . 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 73 

ness till we reach the noble walk leading from the gateway of the 
centre pavilion, through flowers, statues, orange-trees, and chest- 
nut-groves, as far as the eye can reach, till it reposes at last upon 
the lofty arch of the Barriere de I'Etoile. 

This coup-dfcBil is so beautiful, that I constantly feel renewed 
pleasure when I look upon it. I do indeed confess myself to be 
one of those " who in trim gardens take their pleasure." I love 
the studied elegance, the carefully-selected grace, of every object 
permitted to meet the pampered eye in such a spot as this. I love 
these fondly-nurtured princely exotics, the old orange-trees, ranged 
in their long stately rows ; and better still do 1 love the marble 
groups, that stand so nobly, sometimes against the bright blue sky, 
and sometimes half concealed in the dark setting of the trees. 
Every thing seems to speak of taste, luxury, and elegance. 

Having indulged in a lingering walk from the palace to the 
point at which the sunshine ceases and the shade begins, a new 
species of interest and amusement awaits us. Thousands of 
chairs scattered just within the shelter of this inviting covert are 
occupied by an interminable variety of pretty groups. 

I wonder how many months of constant attendance there it 
would take before I should grow weary of studying the whole and 
every separate part of this bright picture ? It is really matchless 
in beauty as a spectacle, and unequalled in interest as a national 
study. All Paris may in turn be seen and examined there ; and 
nowhere is it so easy to distinguish specimens of the various 
and strongly-marked divisions of the people. 

This morning we took possession of half a dozen chairs under 
the trees which front the beautiful group of Petus and Aria. It was 
the hour when all the newspapers are in the greatest requisition ; 
and we had the satisfaction of watching the studies of three indi- 
viduals, each of whom might have sat as a model for an artist who 
wished to give an idea of their several peculiarities. We saw, in 
short, beyond the possibility of doubt, a royalist, a doctrinaire, and 
a republican, during the half hour we remained there, all soothing 
their feelings by indulging in two sous' worth of politics, each in 
his own line. 

A stiff but gentlemanlike old man first came, and having taken 
a journal from the little octagon stand — which journal we felt quite 
sure was either " La France" or " La Quotidienne" — he estab- 
lished himself at no great distance from us. Why it was that we 
all felt so certain of his being a legitimatist I can hardly tell you, 
but not one of the party had the least doubt about it. There was 
a quiet, half-proud, half-melancholy air of keeping himself apart ; 
an aristocratical cast of features ; a pale, care-worn complexion ; 
and a style of dress which no vulgar man ever wore, but which 
no rich one would be likely to wear to-day. This is all I can re- 



74 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

cord of him : but there was something pervading his whole per- 
son too essentially loyal to be misunderstood, yet too delicate in 
its tone to be coarsely painted. Such as it was, however, we felt 
it quite enough to make the matter sure ; and if I could find out 
that old gentleman to be either doctrinaire or republican, I never 
would look on a human countenance again in order to discover 
what was passing within. 

The next who approached us we were equally sure was a re- 
publican : but here the discovery did little honour to our discern- 
ment ; for these gentry choose to leave no doubt upon the subject 
of their clique, but contrive that every article contributing to the 
appearance of the outward man shall become a symbol and a sign, 
a token and a stigma, of the madness that possesses them. He 
too held a paper in his hand, and without venturing to approach 
too nearly to so alarming a personage, we scrupled not to assure 
each other that the journal he was so assiduously perusing was 
" Le Reformateur." 

Just as we had decided what manner of man it was who was 
stalking so majestically past us, a comfortable-looking citizen ap- 
proached in the uniform of the National Guard, who sat himself 
down to his daily allowance of politics with the air of a person 
expecting to be well pleased with what he finds, but, nevertheless, 
too well contented with himself and all things abou,t him to care 
overmuch about it. Every line of this man's jocund face, every 
curve of his portly figure, spoke contentment and wellbeing. He 
was probably one of that very new race in France, a tradesman 
making a rapid fortune. Was it possible to doubt that the paper 
in his hand was " Le Journal des Debats ?" Was it possible to 
beheve that this man was other than a prosperous doctrinaire ? 

Thus, on the neutral ground furnished by these delightful gar- 
dens, hostile spirits meet with impunity, and, though they mingle 
not, enjoy in common the delicious privileges of cool shade, fresh 
air, and the idle luxury of an alfresco newspaper, in the midst of 
a crowded and party-split city, with as much certainty of being 
unchallenged and uninterrupted as if each were wandering alone 
in a princely domain of his own. 

Such, too, as are not over splenetic may find a very lively 
variety of study in watching the ways of the little dandies and 
dandiesses, who, at some hours of the day, swarm Hke so many 
humming-birds amid the shade and sunshine of the Tuileries. 
Either these little French personages are marvellously well-be- 
haved, or there is some superintending care which prevents scream- 
ing ; for I certainly never saw so many young things assembled 
together who indulged so rarely in that salutary exercise of the 
lungs which makes one so often tremble at the approach of 
" Soft infancy, that nothing can but cry." 



ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 7S 

The costumes of these pretty creatures contribute not a Httle to 
the amusement ; it is often so whimsical as to give them the ap- 
pearance of miniature maskers. I have seen httle fellows beat- 
ing a hoop in the full uniform of a National Guard ; others wad- 
dling under the mimicry of kilted Highlanders ; and small ladies 
without number in every possible variety of un-babylike apparel. 

The entertainment to be derived from sitting in the Tuileries 
Gardens and studying costume, is, however, by no means confined 
to the junior part of the company. In no country have I ever seen 
any thing approaching in grotesque habiliments to some of the fig- 
ures daily and hourly met lounging about these walks. But such 
vagaries are confined wholly to the male part of the population : 
it is very rare to see a woman outrageously dressed in any way; 
and if you do, the chances are five hundred to one that she is not 
a Frenchwoman. An air of quiet, elegant neatness is, I think, the 
most striking characteristic of the walking costume of the French 
ladies. All the little minor finishings of the female toilet appear 
to be more sedulously cared for than the weightier matters of the 
pelisse and gown, Every lady you meet is hien chaussie, hien 
gantee. Her ribands, if they do not match her dress, are sure to 
accord with it ; and for all the delicate garniture that comes under 
the care of the laundress, it should seem that Paris alone, of all 
the earth, knows how to iron. 

The whimsical caprices of in ale attire, on the contrary, defy 
any thing like general remark ; unless, indeed, it be that the air of 
Paris appears to have the quaHty of turning all the imperials, fa- 
voris, and moustaches which dwell within its walls to jetty black- 
ness. At a little distance the young men have really the air of 
having their faces tied up with black riband as a cure for the 
mumps ; and, handsome as this dark chevelure is generally allow- 
ed to be, the heavy uniformity of it at present very considerably 
lessens its striking effect. When every man has his face half 
covered with black hair, it ceases to be a very valuable distinction. 
Perhaps, too, the frequent advertisements of compositions infalli- 
ble in their power of turning the hair to any colour except " what 
pleases God," may tend to make one look with suspicious eyes at 
these once fascinating southern decorations ; but, at present, I 
take it to be an undoubted fact, that a clean, close-shaven, north- 
ern-looking gentleman is valued at a high premium in every salon 
in Paris, 

It is not to be denied that the " glorious and immortal days" 
have done some injury to the general appearance of the Tuileries 
Gardens. Before this period, no one was permitted to enter them 
dressed in a blouse, or jacket, or casquette ; and no one, either 
male or female, might carry bundles or baskets through these 
pretty regions, sacred to relaxation and holyday enjoyment. But 



76 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

liberty and unseemly sordidness of attire being somehow or other 
jumbled together in the minds of the sovereign mob, — not sover- 
eign either — the mob is only vice-regal in Paris as yet ; — but the 
mob, however, such as it is, has obtained, as a mark of peculiar 
respect and favour to themselves, a new law or regulation, by 
which it is enacted, that these royal precincts may become like 
unto Noah's ark, and that both clean and unclean beasts may 
enter here. 

Could one wish for a better specimen of the sort of advantage 
to be gained by removing the restraint of authority in order to 
pamper the popular taste for what they are pleased to call free- 
dom ? Not one of the persons who enter the gardens now was 
restricted from entering them before ; only it was required that 
they should be decently clad ; — that is to say, in such garments 
as they were accustomed to wear on Sunday, or any other holy- 
day; the only occasions, one should imagine, on which the work- 
ing-classes could wish to profit by permission to promenade in a 
public garden : but the obligation to appear clean in the garden of 
the king's palace was an infringement on their liberty, so that 
formality is dispensed with; and they have now obtained the dis- 
tinguished and ennobling privilege of being as dirty and ilUdressed 
as they like. 

The power formerly intrusted to the sentinel, wherever there 
was one stationed, of refusing the entree to all persons not prop- 
erly dressed, gave occasion once to a saucy outbreaking of French 
wit in one of the National Guard, which was amusing enough. 
This civic guardian was stationed at the gates of a certain mairie 
on some public occasion, with the usual injunction not to permit 
any person '^ mal-mis'^ to enter. An incroyahle presented him- 
self, not dressed in the fashion, but immoderately beyond it. The 
sentinel looked at him, and lowered his piece across the entrance, 
pronouncing, in a voice of authority — 

" You cannot enter." 

"Not enter?" exclaimed the astonished beau, looking down at 
the exquisite result of his laborious toilet ; " not enter ? — forbid 
me to enter, sir? — impossible ! What is it you mean ? Let me 
pass, I say !" 

The imperturbable sentinel stood like a rock before the entrance : 
" My orders are precise,'^' he said, " and I may not infringe them." 

" Precise ? Your orders precise to refuse me V 

" Oui, monsieur, precis, de refuser qui que ce soit que je trouve 
mal-mis."* 

* Yes, sir, precise, to exclude every person who is not well-dressed 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 77 



LETTER XV. 

Street Police — Cleaning Beds — Tinning Kettles — Building Houses — Loading Carts — 
Preparing for the Scavenger — Want of Drains — Bad Pavement — Darkness. 

My last letter was of the Tuileries Gardens ; a theme which 
furnished me so many subjects of admiration, that I think, if only 
for the sake of variety, I will let the smelfungus vein prevail to- 
day. Such, then, being my humour, — or my ill-humour, if you 
will, — I shall indulge it by telling you what I think of the street- 
police of Paris. 

I will not tell you that it is bad, for that, I doubt not, many 
others may have done before me ; but I will tell you that I con- 
sider it as something wonderful, mysterious, incomprehensible, 
and perfectly astonishing. 

In a city where every thing intended to meet the eye is con- 
verted into graceful orrfainent ; where the shops and coffee-houses 
have the air of fairy palaces, and the markets show fountains 
wherein the daintiest naiads might delight to bathe ; — in such a 
city as this, where the women look too delicate to belong wholly 
to earth, and the men too watchful and observant to suffer the 
winds of heaven to visit them too roughly ; — in such a city as , 
this, you are shocked and disgusted at every step you take, or at / 
every gyration tha^the wheels of your chariot can make, by sights ' 
and smells that may not be described. 

Every day brings my astonishment on this subject to a higher 
pitch than the one which preceded it; for every day brings with 
it fresh conviction that a very considerable portion of the enjoy- 
ment of life "iTaTtogether destroyed in Paris by the neglect or 
omission of such a degree of municipal interference as might 
secure the most elegant people in the world from the loathsome 
disgust occasioned by the perpetual outrage of common decency 
in their streets. 

On this branch of the subject it is impossible to say more ; but 
there are other points on which the neglect of street-police is 
as plainly, though less disgustingly, apparent ; and some of these 
I will enumerate for your information, as they may be described 
without impropriety ; but when they are looked at in conjunction 
with the passion for graceful decoration, so decidedly a character- 
istic of the French people, they offer to our observation an incon 
gruity so violent, as to puzzle in no ordinary degree tvhoever maj 
wish to explain it. 



78 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

You cannot at this season pass through any street in Paris, how- 
ever pre-eminently fashionable from its situation, or however dis 
tinguished by the elegance of those who frequent it, without being 
frequently obliged to turn aside, that you may not run against two 
or more women covered with dust, and probably with vermin, who 
are busily employed in pulling their flock mattresses to pieces in 
the street. There they stand or sit, caring for nobody, but comb- 
ing, turning, and shaking the wool upon all comers and goers ; and, 
finally, occupying the space round which many thousand passen- 
gers are obliged to make what is always an inconvenient, and 
sometimes a very dirty detour, by poking the material, cleared from 
the filth, which has passed into the throats of the gentlemen and 
ladies of Paris, back again into its checked repository. 

I have within this half hour passed from the Itahan Boulevard 
by the Opera-house, in the front of which this obscene and loath- 
some operation was being performed by a solitary old crone, who 
will doubtless occupy the place she has chosen during the whole 
day, and carry away her bed just in time to permit the Duke of 
Orleans to step from his carriage into the Opera without tumbling 
over it, but certainly not in time to prevent his having a great 
chance of receiving as he passes some portion of the various ani- 
mate and inanimate superfluities which for so many hours she 
has been scattering to the air. 

A few days ago I saw a well-dressed gentleman receive a severe 
contusion on the head, and the most overwhelming destruction to 
the neatness of his attire, in consequence of a fall occasioned by 
his foot getting entangled in the apparatus of a street- working 
tinker, who had his charcoal fire, bellows, melting-pot, and all 
other things necessary for carrying on the tinning trade in a small 
way, spread forth on the pavement of the Rue de Provence. 

When the accident happened, many persons were passing, all 
of whom seemed to take a very obliging degree of interest in the 
misfortune of the fallen gentleman ; but not a syllable either of re- 
monstrance or remark was uttered concerning the invasion of the 
highway by the tinker ; nor did that wandering individual himself 
appear to think any apology called for, or any change in the ar- 
rangement of his various chattels necessary. 

J Whenever a house is to be built or repaired in London, the first 
thing done is to surround the premises with a high paling, that 
shall prevent any of the operations that are going on within it from 
annoying in any way the public in the street. The next thing is 
to arrange a footpath round this paling, carefully protected by 
posts and rails, so that this unavoidable invasion of the ordinary 
footpath may be productive of as little inconvenience as possible. 

Were you to pass a spot in Paris under similar circumstances, 
you would fancy that some tremendous accident — a fire, perhaps, 



tARlS AND THE PARISIANS. 79 

or the falling in of a roof — had occasioned a degree of difficulty 
and confusion to the passengers which it was impossible to sup- 
pose could be suffered to remain an hour unremedied : but it is, on 
the contrary, permitted to continue, to the torment and danger of 
daily thousands, for months together, without the slightest notice 
or objection on the part of the municipal authorities. If a cart be 
loading or unloading in the street, it is permitted to take and keep 
a position the most inconvenient, in utter disregard of any danger 
or delay which it may and must occasion to the carriages and foot- 
passengers who have to travel round it. 

Nuisances and abominations of all sorts are without scruple'*-,, 
committed to the street at any hour of the day or night, to await ^ 
the morning visit of the scavenger to remove them : and happy 
indeed is it for the humble pedestrian if his eye and nose alone 
suffer from these ejectments ; happy, indeed, if he comes not in 
contact with them, as they make their imceremonious exit from 
window or door. " Quel bonheur .'" is the exclamation if he es- 
capes ; but a look, wholly in sorrow and nowise in anger, is the 
only helpless resource should he be splashed from head to foot. 

On the subject of that monstrous barbarism, a gutter in the mid- -, 
die of the streets expressly formed for the reception of filth, which 
is still permitted to deform the greater portion of this beautiful 
city, I can only say, that the patient endurance of it by men and 
women of the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five is a 
mystery difficult to understand. 

It really appears to me, that almost the only thing in the world S- 
which other men do, but which Frenchmen cannot, is the making 
of sewers and drains. After an hour or two of very violent rain 
last week, that part of the Place Louis Quinze which is near the 
entrance to the Champs Elysees remained covered with water. 
The Board of Works having waited for a day or two to see what 
would happen, and finding that the muddy lake did not disappear, 
commanded the assistance of twenty-six able-bodied labourers, 
who set about digging just such a channel as little boys amuse 
themselves by making beside a pond. By this well-imagined en- 
gineering exploit, the stagnant water was at length conducted to 
the nearest gutter, the pickaxes were shouldered, and an open 
muddy channel left to adorn this magnificent area, which, were 
a little finishing bestowed upon it, would probably be the finest 
point that any city in the world could boast. 

Perhaps it will hardly be fair to set it among my complaints 
against the streets of Paris, that they have not yet adopted our last 
and most luxurious improvement. I cannot but observe, however, 
that having passed some weeks here, I feel that the Macadamized j 
streets of London ought to become the subject of a metropolitan 
jubilee among us. The exceeding noise of Paris, proceeding 



80 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

either from the uneven structure of the pavement, or from the de- 
fective construction of wheels and springs, is so violent and inces- 
sant as to appear like the effect of one great continuous cause — a 
sort of demon torment, which it must require great length of use 
to enable one to endure without suffering. Were a cure for this 
sought in the Macadamizing of the streets, an additional advan- 
tage, by-the-by, would be obtained, from the difhculiies it would 
throw in the way of the future heroes of a barricade. 

There is another defect, however, and one much more easily 
remedied, which may fairly, I think, come under the head of de- 
fective street-police. This is the profound darkness of every part 
of the city in which there are not shops illuminated by the owners 
of them with gas. This is done so brilliantly on the Boulevards 
by the cafis and restaiirans, that the dim oldfashioned lamp sus- 
pended at long intervals across the pave is forgotten. But no 
sooner is this region of light and gayety left, than you seem to 
plunge into outer darkness ; and there is not a little country town 
in England which is not incomparably better lighted than any 
street in Paris which depends for its illumination upon the public 
regulations of the city. 

As it is evident that gas-pipes must be actually laid in all direc- 
tions in order to supply the individuals who employ it in their 
houses, I could in no way understand why these most dismal river- 
beres, with their dingy oil, were to be made use of in preference to 
the beautiful light which almost outblazes that of the sun ; but I 
am told that some unexpired contract between Paris and her lamp- 
lighters is the cause of this. Were the convenience of the public 
as sedulously studied in France as in England, not all the claims 
of all the lamplighters in the world, let it cost what it might to con- 
tent them, would keep her citizens groping in darkness when it 
was so very easy to give them light. 

But not to dwell ungratefully upon the grievances which cer- 
tainly disfigure this city of delight, I will not multiply instances ; 
yet I am sure I may assert, without fear of contradiction or re- 
proach, that such a street-pohce as that of London would be one 
of the greatest civic blessitigs that King Philippe could possibly 
bestow upon his " belle ville de Paris." 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 81 



LETTER XVI. 

Preparations for the Fete du Roi — Arrival of Troops — Champs Elysees — Concert in the 
Garden of the Tuileries — Silence of the People — Fireworks. 

May 2, 1835. 

For several days past we have been watching the preparations 
for the king's fete, which, though not quite equal to those in the 
days of the emperor, when all the fountains in Paris ran wine, 
were on a large and splendid scale, and if more sober, were per- 
haps not less princely. Temporary theatres, ball-rooms, and or- 
chestras in the Champs Elysees — magnificent fireworks on the 
Pont Louis Seize — preparations for a full concert immediately in 
front of the Tuileries Palace, and arrangement of lamps for general 
illuminations, but especially in the gardens, were the chief of these ; 
but none of them struck us so much as the daily-increasing num- 
ber of troops. National Guards and soldiers of the line divided the 
streets between them ; and as a grand rericw was naturally to 
make a part of the day's pageantry, there would have been nothing 
to remark in this, were it not that the various parties into which 
the country is divided perpetually leads people to suppose that 
King Philippe finds it necessary to act on the defensive. 

Numberless are the hints, as you may imagine, on this theme, 
that have been thrown out on the present occasion ; and it is con- 
fidently asserted in some quarters, that the reviewing of large 
bodies of troops is likely to become a very fashionable and fre- 
quent, if not a very popular, amusement he^e. If, indeed, a show 
of force be necessary to ensure the tranquillity of this strife-worn 
land, the government certainly do right in displaying it ; but if this 
be not the case, there is some imprudence in it, for the eiFect much 
resembles that of . 

" A rich armour, worn in heat of day, 
That scalds with safety." 

Yesterday, then, being marked in the calendar as sacred to St. 
Jacques and St. Philippe, was kept as the fete of the present King 
of the French. The weather was brilliant, and every thing look- 
ed gay, particularly around the courtly region of the Tuileries, 
Champs Elysees, and all parts near or between them. 

Being assured by a philosophical looker-on upon all such as- 
semblings of the people as are likely to show forth indications of 
their temper, that the humours of the Champs Elysees would dis- 

F 



83 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

play more of this than I could hope to find elsewhere, I was aboul 
to order a carriage to convey us there ; but my friend stopped me. 

" You may as well remain at home," said he ; " from a car- 
riage you will see nothing but a mob : but if you will walk among 
them, you may, perhaps, find out whether they are thinking of any 
thing or nothing." 

" Any thing ? — or nothing ?" I repeated. " Does the any thing 
mean a revolution ? Tell me truly, is there any chance of a riot ?" 

Instead of answering, he turned to a gentleman of our party 
who was just returned from the review of the troops by the king. 

" Did you not say you had seen the review ?" he demanded. 

*' Yes ; I am just come from it." 

" And what do you think of the troops ?" 

" They are very fine troops, — remarkably fine men, both the 
National Guards and the troops of the line." 

"And in sufficient force, are they not, to keep Paris quiet if she 
should feel disposed to be frolicsome ?" 

" Certainly — I should think so." 

It was therefore determined, leaving the younger part of the fe- 
males behind us, however, in case of the worst, that we should 
repair to the Champs Elysees. 

No one who has not seen a public fete celebrated at Paris can 
form an idea of the scene which the whole of this extensive area 
presents : it makes me giddy even to remember it. Imagine a 
hundred swings throwing their laughing cargoes high into the air ; 
a hundred winged ships flying in endless vs^hirl, and bearing for 
their crews a tete-d-tete pair of holyday sweethearts : imagine a 
hundred horses, each with two prancing hoofs high poised in air, 
coursing each other in a circle, with nostrils of flame ; a hundred 
mountebanks, chattering and gibbering their inconceivable jargon, 
some habited as generals, some as Turks, — some offering their 
nostrums in the impressive habit of an Armenian Jew, and others 
rolling head-over-heels upon a stage, and presenting a dose with 
the grin of Grimaldi. We stopped more than once in our progress 
to watch the ways of one of these animals when it had succeeded 
in fascinating its prey : the poor victim was cajoled and coaxed 
into believing that none of woman bom could ever taste of evil 
more, if he would but trust to the one only true, sure, and certain 
specific. 

At all sides of us, as we advanced, we were skirted by long 
lines of booths, decked with gaudy merchandise, rings, clasps, 
brooches, buckles, most tempting to behold, and all to be had for 
five sous each. It is pretty enough to watch the eager glances 
and the smirking smiles of the damsels, with the yielding, tender 
looks of the fond boys who hover round these magazines of fe- 
anale trumpery. Alas ! it is, perhaps, but the beginning of sorrow ! 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 88 

In the largest open space afforded by these Elysian fields were 
erected two theatres, the interval between them holding, it was 
said, twenty thousand spectators. While one of these performed 
a piece, pantomimic, I believe, the other enjoyed a reldche, and re- 
posed itself: but the instant the curtain of one fell, that of the 
other rose, and the ocean of heads which filled the space between 
them turned, and undulated like the waves of the sea, ebbing and 
flowing, backward and forward, as the inoon-struck folly attracted 
them. 

Four ample al fresco enclosures, prepared for dancing, each 
furnished with a very respectable orchestra, occupied the extreme 
corners of this space ; and, notwithstanding the crowd, the heat, 
the sunshine, and the din, this exercise, which was carried on im- 
mediately under them, did not, I was told, cease for a single in- 
stant during the whole of that long summer day. When one set 
of fiddlers were tired out, another succeeded. The activity, gay- 
ety, and universal good-humour of this enormous mob were uni- 
form and uninterrupted from morning to night. 

These people really deserve fetes ; they enjoy them so heartily, 
yet so peaceably. 

Such were the great and most striking features of the jubilee ; 
but we hardly advanced a single step through the throng which 
did not exhibit to us some minor trait of national and characteris- 
tic revelry. I was delighted to observe, however, throughout the 
whole of my expedition, that, according to our friend's definition, 
" nobody luas thinking of any things 

But what pleased me incomparably more than all the rest was 
the temperate style of the popular refreshments. The young men 
and the old, the time-worn matron and the dainty damsel, all alike 
slaked their thirst with iced lemonade, which was furnished in 
incredible quantities by numberless ambulant cisterns, at the price 
of one sous the glass. Happily, this light-hearted, fete-loving pop- 
ulation have no gin-palaces to revel in. 

But hunger was to be satisfied as well as thirst ; and here the 
friand taste of the people displayed itself by dozens of little 
chafing-dishes, lodged at intervals under the trees, each with its 
presiding old woman, who, holding a frying-pan, for ever redolent 
of onions, over the coals, screamed, in shrill accents, the praises 
of her saucisses and her/oze. This was the only part of the busi- 
ness that was really disagreeable : the odour from these alfresco 
kitchens was not, I confess, very pleasant ; but every thing else 
pleased me exceedingly. It was the first time I ever saw a real 
mob in full jubilee ; and I did not believe it possible I could be 
so much amused, and so not at all frightened. Even before one 
of these terribly odoriferant kitchens, I could not help pausing for 
a moment, as I passed, to admire the polite style in which an old 

R2 



84 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

woman, who had taken early possession of the shade of a tree for 
her restaurant, defended the station from the wheel-barrow of a 
merchant of gingerbread who approached it. 

" Pardon, monsieur ! Ne venez pas, je vous prie, de- 
ranger mon etablissement."* 

The two grotesque old figures, together with their fittings up, 
made this dignified address delightful ; and as it was answered by 
a bow, and the respectful drawing back of the wheel-barrow, I 
cannot but give it the preference over the more energetic language 
which a similar circumstance would be likely to produce at Bar- 
tholomew Fair. 

Altogether we were infinitely amused by this excursion ; but I 
think I never was more completely fatigued in my life. Never- 
theless, I contrived to repose myself sufficiently to join a large 
party to the Tuileries Gardens in the evening, where we were 
assured that two hundred thousand persons were collected. The 
crowd was indeed very great, and the party soon found it impos- 
sible to keep together ; but about three hours afterward we had 
the satisfaction of assembling in safety at the same pleasant man- 
sion from which we set out. 

The attraction which, during the early part of the evening, 
chiefly drew together the crowd, was the orchestra in front of the 
palace. A large military band were stationed there, and contin- 
ued playing,- while the thousands and tens of thousands of lamps 
were being lighted all over the gardens. 

During this time, the king, queen, and royal family appeared 
on the balcony. And here the only fault which I had perceived 
in this pretty fete, throughout the day, showed itself so strongly 
as to produce a very disagreeable effect. From first to last, it 
seemed that the cause of the jubilee was forgotten ; not a sound 
of any kind greeted the appearance of the royal party. That so 
gay and demonstrative a people, assembled in such numbers, and 
on such an occasion, should remain with uplifted heads, gazing on 
the sovereign, without a sound being uttered by any single voice, 
appeared perfectly astonishing. However, if there were no bravoes, 
Ihere was decidedly no hissing. 

The scene itself was one of enchanting gayety. Before us 
ipse the illuminated pavilions of the Tuileries : the bright lights 
darting through the oleanders and myrtles on the balcony, showed 
to advantage the royal party stationed there. On every side were 
trees, statues, flowers, brought out to view by unnumbered lamps 
rising in brilliant pyramids among them, while the inspiring sounds 
of martial music resounded in the midst. The jets d^ea,u, catch- 
ing the artificial light, sprang high into the air like arrows of fire, 

* I beg your pardon, monsieur; but have the goodness not to upset my establish- 
ment. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 85 

then turned into spray, and descended again in light showers, 
seeming to shed dehcious coolness on the crowd; and behind 
them, far as the eye could reach, stretched the suburban forest, 
sparkling with festoons of lamps, that seemed drawn out, " fine 
by degrees and beautifully less," up to the Barriere de I'Etoile. 
The scene itself was indeed lovely ; and if, instead of the heavy 
silence with which it was regarded, a loud heartfelt cheering had 
greeted the jour defete of a long-loved king, it would have been 
perfect. 

The fire-works, too, were superb ; and though all the theatres 
in Paris were opened gratis to the public, and, as we afterward 
heard, completely filled, the multitudes that thronged to look at 
them seemed enough to people a dozen cities. But it is so much 
the habit of this people, old and young, rich and poor, to live out 
of doors, that a slight temptation " bye common" is sufficient to 
draw forth every human being who is able to stand alone : and, 
indeed, of those who are not, thousands are deposited in chairs, 
and other thousands in the arms of mothers and nurses. 

The Pont Louis Seize was the point from which all the fire- 
works were let off. No spot could have been better chosen : the 
terraces of the Tuileries looked down upon it ; and the whole 
length of the quays, on both sides of the river, as far as the CiU, 
looked up to it, and the persons stationed on them must have seen 
clearly the many-coloured fires that blazed there. 

One of the prettiest popular contrivances for creating a shout 
when fire-works are exhibited here, is to have rockets, sending up 
tri-coloured balls, blue, white, and red, in rapid succession, look- 
ing, as I heard a young republican say, " like winged messengers, 
from their loved banner up to heaven." I could not help remark- 
ing, that if the messengers repeated faithfully all that the tri- 
coloured banner had done, they would have strange tales to tell. 

The bouquet, or last grand display that finished the exhibition, 
was very fanciful and very splendid : but what struck me as the 
prettiest part of the whole show, was the Chamber of Deputies, 
the architecture of which was marked by lines of light ; and the 
magnificent flight of steps leading to it, having each one its unbro- 
ken fencing of fire, was perhaps intended as a mystical type of 
the ordeal to be passed in a popular election before this temple of 
wisdom could be entered. 

How very delightful was the abounding tea of that hot lamp-lit 
night ! . . . And how very thankful was I this morning at one 
o'clock, to feel that the/eie du roi was peaceably over, and I ready 
to fall soundly to sleep in my bed ! 



gg PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER XVII. 

Political chances — Visit from a Republican — His high spirits at the prospects before him 
— His advice to me respecting my name — Removal of the Prisoners from Ste. Pelagie 
— Review — Garde de Paris — The National Guard. 

We are so accustomed, in these our luckless days, to hear of 
emeutes and rumours of emeutes, here, there, and everywhere, that 
we certainly grow nerve-hardened, and if not quite callous, at least 
we are almost reckless of the threat. But in this city the business 
of getting up riots on the one hand, and putting them down on the 
other, is carried on in so easy and familiar a manner, that we dai- 
ly look for an account of something of the kind as regularly as for 
our breakfast bread ; and I begin already to lose in a great degree 
my fear of disagreeable results, in the interest with which I watch 
what is going on. 

The living in the midst of all these different parties, and listen- 
ing first to one and then to another of them, is to a foreigner much 
like the amusement derived by an idle spectator from walking 
round a card-table, looking into all the hands, and then watching 
the manner in which each one plays his game. 

It has so often happened here, as we all know, that when the 
game has appeared over, and the winner in possession of the 
stake he played for, they have on a sudden shuffled the cards and 
begun again, that people seem always looking out for new chances, 
new bets, new losses, and new confusion. I can assure you, that 
it is a game of considerable movement and animation which is 
going on at Paris just now. The political trials are to commence 
on Tuesday next, and the republicans are as busy as a nest of 
wasps when conscious that their stronghold is attacked. They 
have not only been upon the alert, but hitherto in great spirits at 
the prospect before them. 

The same individual whose alarming communications on this 
subject I mentioned to you soon after we came here, called on me 
again a few days ago. I never saw a man more altered in the in- 
terval of a few weeks : when I first saw him here, he was sullen, 
gloomy, and miserable-looking in the extreme ; but at his last 
visit he appeared gay, frolicsome, and happy. He was not dis- 
posed, however, to talk much on politics ; and I am persuaded he 
came with a fixed determination not to indulge our curiosity by 
saying a word on the subject. But " out of the fulness of the 
heart the mouth speaketh ;" and this gentleman did not depart 
without giving us some little intimation of what was passing in his. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 87 

Observe, that I do no treason in repeating to you whatever this 
young man said in my hearing ; for he assured me the first time I 
ever saw him, that he knew me to be " une ahsolutiste enragee ;" 
but that, so far from fearing to speak freely before me, there was 
nothing that would give him so much pleasure as believing that I 
should publish every word he uttered on the subject of politics. 
I told him in return, that if I did so, it should be without mention- 
ing his name ; for that I should be truly sorry to hear that he had 
been consigned to Ste. Pelagic as a rebel on my evidence. So 
we understand each other perfectly. 

On the morning in question, he began talking gayly and gallant- 
ly concerning the pleasures of Paris, and expressed his hope that 
we were taking care to profit by the present interval of public 
tranquillity. 

" Is this interval of calm likely to be followed by a storm ?" said 
one of the party. 

" Mais . . . que sais-je ? . . . The weather is so fine now, you 
know . . . and the opera ? en verite, c'est superbe ! . . . Have you 
seen it yet ?" 

" Seen what ?" 

" Eh ! mais, ' La Juive !' . . . a present il n'y a que cela au 
monde . . . You read the journals ?" 

" Yes ; Galignani's at least." 

" Ah ! ah !" said he laughing ; " c'est assez pour vous autres." 

" Is there any interesting news to-day in any of the papers ?" 

" Interessante ? ... mais, oui . . . assez . . . Cependant . . ." 
And then again he rattled on about plays, balls, concerts, and I 
know not what. 

" I wish you would tell me," said I, interrupting him, " whether 
you think, that in case any popular movement should occur, the 
English would be molested, or in any way annoyed." 

" Non, madame — je ne le crois pas — surtout les femmes. Ce- 
pendant, si j'etais vous, Madame Trollope, je me donnerai pour 
le moment le nom d'O'Connell."* 

" And that, you think, would be accepted as a passport through 
any scene of treason and rebellion ?" said I. 

He laughed again, and said that was not exactly what he 
meant ; but that O'Connell was a name revered in France as well 
as at Rome, and might very likely belong one day or other to a 
pope, if his generous wishes for an Irish republic were too dear 
to his heart to permit him ever to accept the title of king. 

" An Irish republic ? . . . perhaps that is just what is wanted," 
said I. But not wishing to enter into any discussion on the nice- 
ties of speech, I waived the compliments he began to pay me on 

* No, madam, I think not — at all events, not ladies. Nevertheless, if I were you, I 
would assume, for the moment, the name of O'Connell. 



88 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

this liberal sentiment, and again asked him if he thought any 
thing was going on among the friends of the prisoners that might 
impede the course of justice. 

Though not aware of the quibble with which I had replied to 
him, he answered me by another, saying with energy — 

" No ! ... never ! . . . They will never do any thing to impede 
the course of justice." 

" Will they do any thing to assist it ?" said I. 

He sprang from his chair, gave a bound across the room, as if to 
hide his glee by looking out of the window, and when he showed his 
face again, said, with much solemnity — " They will do their duty." 

The conversation continued for some time longer, wavering 
between politics and dissipation ; and though we could not obtain 
from him any thing approaching to information respecting what 
might be going on among his hot-headed party, yet it seemed 
clear that he at least hoped for something that would lead to im- 
portant results. 

The riddle was explained a very few hours after he left us. 
The political prisoners, most of whom were lodged in the prison 
of Ste. Pelagic, have been removed to the Luxembourg ; and it 
was confidently hoped and expected by the republicans, that 
enough malecontents would be found among the citizens of Paris 
to get up a very satisfactory emeute on the occasion. But never 
was hope more abortive : not the slightest public sensation ap- 
pears to have been excited by this removal ; and I am assured that 
the whole republican party are so bitterly disappointed at this, 
that the most sanguine among them have ceased for the present 
to anticipate the triumph of their cause. I suspect, therefore, that 
it will be some time before we shall receive another visit from our 
riot-loving friend. 

Meanwhile preparations are going on in a very orderly and ju- 
dicious style at the Luxembourg. The trial-chamber and all 
things connected with it are completed ; tents have been pitched 
in the gardens for the accommodation of the soldiers, and guards 
stationed in such a manner in all directions as to ensure a reason- 
able chance of tranquillity to the peaceable. 

We have attended a review of very fine troops in the Place du 
Carrousel, composed of National Guards, troops of the line, and 
that most superb-looking body of municipal troops called La Garde 
de Paris. These latter, it seems, have performed in Paris, since 
the revolution of 1830, the duties of that portion of the police for- 
merly called gendarmerie ; but the name having fallen into disre- 
pute in the capital — {les jeunes gens, par exemple, could not bear 
it) — the title of Garde de Paris has been accorded to them in- 
stead, and it is now only in the provinces that gendarmes are to 
be found. But let them be called by what name they may, I 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 89 

never saw any corps of more superb appearance. Men and horses, 
accoutrements and discipline, all seem perfect. It is amusing to 
observe how slight a thread will sometimes suffice to lead cap- 
tive the most unruly spirits. 

" What is there in a name ?" 

Yet I have heard it asserted with triumphant crowings by some 
of the revolutionary set, that, thanks to their valour ! the odious 
system was completely changed — that gendarmes and moucliards 
no longer existed in Paris — that citizens would never again be 
tormented by their hateful surveillance — and, in short, that French- 
men were redeemed from thraldom now and for evermore ; so now 
they have La Garde de Paris, just to take care of them : and if 
ever a set of men were capable of performing effectually the du- 
ties committed to their charge, I think it must be this well-drilled 
stalworth corps. 

The appearance of a large body of the National Guard, too, 
when brought together, as at a review, in full military style, is 
very imposing. The eye at once sees that they are not ordinary 
troops. All the appointments are in excellent order; and the 
very material of which their uniform is made, being so much less 
common than usual, helps to produce this effect. Not to mention 
that the uniform itself, of dark blue, with the delicately white 
pantaloons, is peculiarly handsome on parade ; much more so, I 
think, though perhaps less calculated for a battle-field, than the 
red lower garments by which the troops of the French line are at 
present distinguished. 

The king looks well on horseback — so do his sons. The whole 
staff, indeed, was gay and gallant-looking, and in style as decidedly 
aristocratic as any prince need desire. Shouts of " Vive le Roi !" 
ran cheerily and lustily along the lines; and if these may be 
trusted as indications of the feelings of the soldiery towards King 
Philippe, he may, I think, feel quite indifferent as to whatever 
other vows may be uttered concerning him in the distance. 

But in this city of contradictions one can never sit down safely 
to ruminate upon any one inference or conclusion whatever ; for 
five minutes afterward you are assured by somebody or other that _ 
you are quite wrong, utterly mistaken, and that the exact contrary 
of what you suppose is the real fact. Thus, on mentioning in the 
evening the cordial reception given by the soldiers to the king in 
the morning, I received for answer — " Je le crois bien, madame ; 
les officiers leur commandent de le faire."* 

We remained a good while on the ground, and saw as much as 
the confinement of a carriage would permit. Like all reviews 
of well-dressed, well-appointed troops, it was a gay and pretty 

* Oh, I have no doubt of that, madam ; they had their orders from the officers. 



90 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

spectacle ; and notwithstanding the caustic reprimand for my faith 
in empty sounds which I have just repeated to you, I am still of 
opinion that King Philippe had every reason to be contented with 
his troops, and with the manner in which he was received by them. 

Every hour that one remains at Paris increases, I think, one's con- 
viction of the enormous power and importance of the National Guard. 
Our volunteer corps, in the season of threatenings and danger, gave 
us unquestionably an immense accession of strength ; and had the 
threatener dared to come, neither his legions nor his eagles, his 
veterans nor his victories, would have saved him from utter de- 
struction. He knew this, and he came not : he knew that the httle 
island was bristling from her centre to her shore with arms raised 
to strike, by the impulse of the heart and soul, and not by con- 
scription ; he knew this, and wisely came not. 

Our volunteers were armed men — armed in a cause that warm- 
ed their blood ; and it is sufficient to establish their importance, 
that history must record the simple fact, that Napoleon looked at 
ihem and turned away. But, great as was the power of this criti- 
. cal show of volunteer strength among us, as a permanent force, it 
was trifling when compared to the present National Guard of 
France. Not only are their numbers greater — Paris alone has 
eighty thousand of them, — but their discipline is perfect, and their 
practical habits of being on duty keep them in such daily activity, 
that a tocsin sounded within their hearing would suffice to turn 
out within an hour nearly the whole of this force, not only com- 
pletely armed, equipped, and in all respects fit for service — not 
only each one with his quarters and rations provided, but each one 
knowing and feeling the importance of the duty he is upon as in- 
timately as the general himself; and each one, in addition to all 
other feelings and motives which make armed men strong, warmed 
with the consciousness that it is his own stronghold, his own prop- 
erty, his own castle, as well as his own life, that he is defending. 

This force will save France from devouring her own vitals, if 
any thing can do it. 

Among all the novelties produced by the ever-growing experi- 
ence of men, and of which so many have ripened in these latter 
days, I doubt if any can be named more rationally calculated to 
fulfil the purpose for which it is intended, than this organization 
of a force formed of the industrious and the orderly part of a 
community to keep in check the idle and disorderly, — and that 
without taxing the state, compromising their professional useful- 
ness, or sacrificing their personal independence, more than every 
man in his senses would be willing to do for the purpose of keep- 
ing watch and ward over all that he loves and values on earth. 

The more the power of such a force as this increases, the far- 
ther must the country where it exists be from all danger of revolu- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 9^ 

tion. Such men are, and must be, conservatives in the strongest 
sense of the word ; and though it may certainly be possible for 
some who may be rebel to the cause of order to get enrolled 
among them, the danger of the enterprise will unquestionably pre- 
vent its frequent recurrence. The wolf might as safely mount 
guard in the midst of armed shepherds and their dogs, as dema- 
gogues and agitators place themselves in the ranks of the National 
Guard of Paris. 



LETTER XVIII. 

First Day of the Trials — Much blustering, but no riot — All alarm subsided — Proposal 

for inviting Lord B m to plead at the Trial — Society — Charm of idle conversation. 

— The Whisperer of good stories. 

Qth May, 1835. 

The .monster is hatched at last ! The trials began yesterday, 
and we are all rejoicing exceedingly at having found ourselves 
alive in our beds this morning. What will betide us and it, as its 
scales or its plumes push forth and gather strength from day to 
day, I know not ; but " sufficient for the day is the evil thereof ;" 
and I do assure you in very sober earnest, that when Galignani's 
paper arrived this morning, the party round the breakfast-table 
was greatly comforted by finding that nothing more alarming than 
a few republican demands on the part of the prisoners, and a few 
monarchical refusals on the part of the court, took place. 

This interchange of hostilities commenced by some of the 
accused refusing to answer when their names were called ; — then 
followed a demand for free admission to the chamber, during the 
trials, for the mothers, wives, and all other females belonging to 
the respective families of the prisoners ; — and next, a somewhat 
blustering demand for counsel of their own choosing ; the body 
of legal advocates, who, by general rule and common usage, are 
always charged with the defence of prisoners, not containing, as 
it should seem, orators sufficiently of their own clique to content 
them. 

This was of course stoutly refused by the court, after retiring, 
however, for a couple of hours to deliberate upon it — a ceremony 
I should hardly have supposed necessary. The company of the 
ladies, too, was declined ; and as, upon a moderate computation, 
their numerical force could not have amounted to less than five 
hundred, this want of gallantry in the peers of France must be 
forgiven in favour of their discretion. 

The gentleman, however, who was appointed, as he said, by 



92 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

the rest, to request the pleasure of their society, declared loudly 
that the demand for it should be daily renewed. This reminds 
one of the story of the man who punished his wife for infidelity 
by making her sit to hear the story of her misdeeds rehearsed 
every day of her life, and pretty plainly indicates that it is the 
plan of the accused to torment their judges as much as they con- 
veniently can. 

One of the prisoners named the celebrated Abbe de La Men- 
nais, author of " Les Paroles d'un Croyant," as his advocate. 
The procureur-general remarked, that it was for the interest of 
the defence that the rule for permitting lawyers only to plead 
should be adhered to. 

Next came a demand from one of the accused, in the name of 
all the rest, that permission for free and unrestrained intercourse 
between the prisoners of Lyons, Paris, and Marseilles should be 
allowed. This was answered only by the announcement that 
" the court was adjourned ;" an intimation which produced an 
awful clamour ; and as the peers quitted the court, they were as- 
sailed with vehement cries of " We protest ! ... we protest ! . . . 
We will make no defence ! . . . We protest ! ... we protest !" 
And so ended the business of the day. 

I believe that the government, and all those who are sufficiently 
connected with it to know any thing of the real state of the case, 
were perfectly aware that no public movement was likely to take 
place at this stage of the business. Every one seems to know 
that the restless spirits, the desperate adventurers engaged in the 
extensive plot now under investigation, consider their trial as the 
best occasion possible for a political coup de theatre, and that 
nothing would have disturbed their performance more than a riot 
before the curtain rose. 

Every thing like panic seems now to have subsided, even 
among those who are farthest from the centre of action ; and all 
the effects of this mighty affair apparently visible at present are 
to be seen on the faces of the republicans, who, according to their 
wont, strut about wherever they are most likely to be looked at, 
and take care that each one of their countenances shall be 

" Like to a book where men may read strange matters." 

I thank Heaven, nevertheless, that this first day is so well over. 
I had heard so over-much about it, that it became a sort of night- 
mare to me, from which I now feel happily relieved. It is quite 
clear, that if the out-of-door agitators should think proper to make 
any attempts to produce disturbance, the government feels quite 
equal to the task of making them quiet again, and of ensuring 
that peaceable security to the country for which she has so long 
languished in vain. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 93 

The military force employed at the Luxembourg is, however, 
by no means large. One battalion of the first legion of Na- 
tional Guards was in the court of the palace, and about four hun- 
dred troops of the line occupied the garden. But though no show 
of force is unnecessarily displayed, every one has the comfort of 
knowing that there is enough within reach should any necessity 
arise for employing it. 

I was told the other day, that when Lord Brougham was in 
Paris, he was so kind as to visit M. Armand Carrel in prison ; 
and that, on the strength of this proof of sympathy and affection, 
it has been suggested to the prisoners at the Luxembourg, that 
they should despatch a deputation of their friends to wait upon his 
lordship, requesting the aid of his eloquence in pleading their 
cause against the tyrants who so unjustifiably hold them in du- 
rance. 

The proposal, it seems, was very generally approved ; but never- 
theless, it was at last negatived on the representation of a person 
v/ho had once heard his lordship argue in the French language. 
This is the more to be regrettp.d by the friends of these suffering 
victims, since their choice of defenders is to be restricted to mem- 
bers of the bar : and this restriction, narrow-minded and severe as 
it is, would not exclude his lordship ; a legal advocate being be- 
yond all question a legal advocate all the world over. 

It was not till we had sent out in one or two directions to ascer- 
tain if all things were quiet, that we ventured to keep an engage- 
ment which we had made for last night to pass the soiree at 
Madame de L * * * * *'s. I should have been sorry to lose it ; 
for the business of the morning appeared to have awakened the 
spirits and set everybody talking. There are few things I like 
better than listening to a full, free flow of Paris talk ; particularly 
when, as in this instance, the party is small, and in a lively mood. 

It appears as if there were nothing like caution or reserve here 
in any direction. Among those whom I have had the satisfaction 
of occasionally meeting, are some>who figure among the most im- 
portant personages of the day ; but their conversation is as gayly 
unrestrained as if they had nothing to do but to amuse themselves. 
These, indeed, are not likely to commit themselves ; but I have 
known others less secure, who have appeared to permit every 
thought that occurred to them to meet the ear of whoever chose 
to listen. In short, whatever restraint the police, which by its na- 
ture is very phenix-like, may endeavour to put upon the periodical 
press, its influence certainly does not as yet reach the lips, which 
open with equal freedom for the expression of faith, skepticism, 
loyalty, treason, philosophy, and wit. 

In an intercourse so transient as mine is likely to be with most 
of the acquaintance I have formed here — an intercourse consisting 



94 PARIS AND THE PAraSXANS. 

chiefly, as to the manner of it, of evening visits through a series of 
salons^ — amusement is naturally more sought than information : and 
were it otherwise, I should, with some few exceptions, have reaped 
disappointment instead of pleasure ; for it is evident that the same 
feeling which leads the majority of persons you meet in society 
here to speak freely, prevents them from saying any thing serious- 
ly. So that, after talking for an hour or two upon subjects which 
one should think very gravely important, a light word, a light laugh, 
ends the colloquy, and very often leaves me in doubt as to the real 
sentiments of those to whom I have been listening. 

But if not always successful in obtaining information, I never 
fail in finding amusement. Rarely, even for a moment, does con- 
versation languish ; and a string of lively nothings, or a startling 
succession of seemingly bold, but really unmeaning speculations, 
often make me imagine that a vast deal of talent has been dis- 
played ; yet, when memory sets to work upon it, little remains 
worth recording. Nevertheless, there is talent, and of a very 
charming kind too, in this manner of uttering trifles so that they 
may be mistaken for wit. 

I know some few in our own dear land who have also this hap- 
py gift ; and, as a matter of grace and mere exterior endowment, 
1 question if it be not fairly worth all the rest. But I believe we 
have it in about the same proportion that we have good actors of 
genteel comedy, compared to the number which they can boast of 
the same class here. With us this easy, natural style of mimick- 
ing real life is a rare talent, though sometimes possessed in great 
perfection ; but with them it seems more or less the birthright 
of all. 

So is it with the gift of that bright colloquial faculty which be- 
stows such indescribable grace upon the airy nothings uttered in 
French drawang-rooms. To listen to it, is very like quafling the 
sparkling, frothy beverage native to their sunny hills ; — French 
talk is very like champaign. The exhilaration it produces is in- 
stantaneous : the spirits mount, and something like wit is often 
struck out even from dull natures by merely coming in contact with 
what is so brilliant. 

I could almost venture to assert that the effect of this delightful 
inspiration might be perceived by any one who had gained admis- 
sion to French society, even if he did not understand the language. 
Let an observing eye, well accustomed to read the expression so 
legibly, though so transiently written in the countenances of per- 
sons in conversation — let such a one only see, if he cannot hear, 
the effect produced by the hits and flashes of French eloquence. 
Allow me another simile, and I will tell you that it is like apply- 
ing electricity to a bunch of feathers tied together and attached to 
the conductor by a thread : first one, then another starts, flies off". 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 95 

mounts, and drops again, as the bright spark passes lightly, grace- 
fully, capriciously, yet still all making part of one circle. 

Of course, I am not speaking now of large parties ;' these, as I 
think I have said before, are wonderfully alike in all lands, and 
nothing approaching to conversation can possibly take place at any 
of them. It is only where the circle is restricted to a few that this 
sort of effect can be produced ; and then, the impulse once given 
by a piquant word, seemingly uttered at random, every one pres- 
ent receives a share of it, and contributes in return all the lively 
thoughts to which it has given birth. 

But there was one gentleman of our party yesterday evening 
who had a most provoking trick of attracting one's attention as if 
on purpose to disappoint it. He was not quite like Moli^re's Ti- 
mante, of whom Celimene says, 

" Et, jusques au bonjour, il dit tout a I'oreille ;" 

but in the midst of pleasant talk, in which all were interested, he 
said aloud — 

" Par exemple ! I heard the very best thing possible to-day 
about the king. Will you hear it, Madame B . . . . ?" 

This question being addressed to a decided doctrinaire, the an- 
swer was of course a reproachful shake of the head ; but as it was 
accompanied by half a smile, and as the lady bent her fair neck 
towards the speaker, she, and she only, was made acquainted with 
" the best of all possible things," conveyed in a whisper. 

At another time he addressed himself to the lady of the house ; 
but as he spoke across the circle, he not only fixed her attention, 
but that of every one else. 

" Madame !" said he, coaxingly, " will you let me tell you a lit- 
tle word of treason ?" 

" Comment ? — de la trahison ? . . . Apropos de quoi, s'il vous 
plait ? . . . . Mais c'est egal — contez toujours."* 

On receiving this answer, the whisperer of good stories got up 
from the depth of his arm-chair — an enterprise of some difficulty, 
for he was neither rapid nor light in his movements, — and delib- 
erately walking round the chairs of all the party, he placed him- 
self behind Madame de L * * * * *^ and whispered in her ear what 
made her colour and shake her head again ; but she laughed too, 
telling him that she hated timid politics, and had no taste for any 
" trahisons which were not hautement prononcees." 

This hint sent him back to his place ; but it was taken very 
good-humouredly, for, instead of whispering anymore, he uttered 
aloud sundry odds and ends of gossip, but all so well dressed up 
in lively wording, that they sounded very like good stories. 

* What ! treason ! What have I to do with treason, I should be glad to know ? But 
no matter — say on. 



96 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER XIX. ' 

Victor Hugo — Racine. 

I HAVE again been listening to some curious details respecting 
the present state of literature in France. I think I have before 
stated to you, that I have uniformly heard the whole of the decousu 
school of authors spoken of with unmitigated contempt, — and that 
not only by the venerable advocates for the bon vieux temps, but 
also, and equally, by the distinguished men of the present day — 
distinguished both by position and ability. 

Respecting Victor Hugo, the only one of the tribe to which I 
allude who has been sufficiently read in England to justify his be- 
ing classed by us as a person of general celebrity, the feeling is 
more remarkable still. I have never mentioned him or his works 
to any person of good moral feeling and cultivated mind, who did 
not appear to shrink from according him even the degree of repu- 
tation that those who are received as authority among our own 
critics have been disposed to allow him. I might say, that of him 
France seems to be ashamed. 

Again and again it has happened to me, when I have asked the 
opinions of individuals as to the merit of his different plays, that 
I have been answered thus : — 

" I assure you I know nothing about it : I never saw it 
played." 

" Have you read it ?" 

" No ; I have not. I cannot read the works of Victor Hugo." 

One gentleman, who has heard me more than once persist in 
my inquiries respecting the reputation enjoyed by Victor Hugo at 
Paris as a man of genius and a successful dramatic writer, told 
me, that he saw that, in common with the generality of foreigners, 
particularly the English, I looked upon Victor Hugo and his pro- 
ductions as a sort of type or specimen of the literature of France 
at the present hour. " But permit me to assure you," he added, 
gravely and earnestly, " that no idea was ever more entirely and 
altogether erroneous. He is the head of a sect — the high-priest 
of a congregation who have abolished every law, moral and intel- 
lectual, by whicll the efforts of the human mind have hitherto been 
regulated. He has attained this pre-eminence, and I trust that no 
other will arise to dispute it with him. But Victor Hugo is not a 
popular French writer." 

Such a judgment as this, or the like of it, I have heard passed 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 97 

upon him and his works nine times out of ten that I have mention- 
ed him ; and I consider this as a proof of right feeling and sound 
taste which is extremely honourable, and certainly more than we 
have lately given our neighbours credit for. It pleased me the 
more, perhaps, because I did not expect it. There is so much 
meretricious glitter in the works of Victor Hugo, — nay, so much 
real brightness now and then, — that I expected to find at least the 
younger and less reflecting part of the population warm in their ad- 
miration of him. 

His clinging fondness for scenes of vice and horror, and his 
utter contempt for all that time has stamped as good in taste or 
feeling, might, I thought, arise from the unsettled spirit of the 
times ; and if so, he could not fail of receiving the meed of sym- 
pathy and praise from those who had themselves set that spirit at 
work. 

But it is not so. The wild vigour of some of his descriptions is 
acknowledged ; but that is all of praise that I ever heard bestow- 
ed upon Victor Hugo's theatrical productions in his native land. 

The startling, bold, and stirring incidents of his disgusting dra- 
mas must and will excite a certain degree of attention when seen 
for the first time, and it is evidently the interest of managers to 
bring forward whatever is most likely to produce this effect ; but 
the doing so cannot be quoted as a proof of the systematic degra- 
dation of the theatre. It is moreover a fact, which the playbills 
themselves are alone sufficient to attest, that after Victor Hugo's 
plays have had their first run, they are never brought forward again : 
not one of them has yet become what we call a stock-play. 

This fact, which was first stated to me by a person perfectly au 
fait of the subject, has been subsequently confirmed by many 
others ; and it speaks more plainly than any recorded criticism 
could do, what the public judgment of these pieces really is. 

The romance of " Notre Dame de Paris" is ever cited as Vic- 
tor Hugo's best work, excepting some early lyrical pieces of which 
we know nothing. But even this, though there are passages of 
extraordinary descriptive power in it, is always alluded to with 
much more of contempt than admiration ; and I have heard it ridi- 
culed in circles, whose praise was fame, with' a light pleasantry 
more likely to prove an antidote to its mischief than all the repro- 
bation that sober criticism could pour out upon it. 

But may not this champion of vice — this chronicler of sin, 
shame, and misery — quote Scripture and say, " A prophet is not 
without honour, save in his own country ?" For I have seen a 
criticism in an English paper (The Examiner) which says, " The 
Notre Dame of Victor Hugo must take rank with the best roman- 
ces hy the author of W^averley. . . It transcends them in vigour, an- 
imation, and familiarity with the age^ 



98 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

In reply to the last point here mentioned, in which our country- 
man has given the superiority to Victor Hugo over Sir Walter 
Scott, a very strong testimony against its correctness has reached 
me since I have been in Paris. An able lawyer, and most accom- 
plished gentleman and scholar, who holds a distinguished station 
in the Cour Royale, took us to see the Palais de Justice. Hav- 
ing shown us the chamber where criminal trials are carried on, 
he observed, that this was the room described by Victor Hugo in 
his romance ; adding, — " He was, however, mistaken here, as in 
most places where he affects a knowledge of the times of which he 
writes. In the reign of Louis the Eleventh, no criminal trials 
ever took place within the w^alls of this building ; and all the cer- 
emonies as described by him resemble much more a trial of yes- 
terday than of the age at which he dates his tale." 

The vulgar old adage, that " there is no accounting for taste," 
must, I suppose, teach us to submit patiently to the hearing of 
any judgments and opinions which it is the will and pleasure of man 
to pronounce ; but it does seem strange that any can be found who, 
after bringing Sir Walter Scott and Victor Hugo into comparison, 
should give the palm of superiority to the author of " Notre Dame 
de Paris." 

Were the faults of this school of authors only of a literary kind, 
few persons, I believe, would take the trouble to criticise them, 
and their nonsense would die a natural death as soon as it was 
made to encounter the light of day : but such productions as Vic- 
tor Hugo's are calculated to do great injury to human nature. 
They would teach us to believe that all our gentlest and best affec- 
tions can only lead to crime and infamy. There is not, I truly 
believe, a single pure, innocent, and holy thought to be found 
throughout his writings : Sin is the muse he invokes — he would 

" Take off the rose ' 
From the fair forehead of an innocent love, 
And set a bhster there." 

Horror is his handmaid ; and " thousands of liveried monsters 
lackey him," to furnish the portraits with which it is the occupation 
of his life to disgust the world. 

Can there, think you, be a stronger proof of a diseased intellect 
among the decousu part of the world, than that they not only ad- 
mire this man's hideous extravagances, but that they actually be- 
lieve him to be ... at least they say so ... a second Shakspeare ! 
... A Shakspeare ! 

; To chastise as he deserves an author who may be said to defy 
mankind by the libels he has put forth on the whole race, requires 
a stouter and a keener weapon than any a woman can wield ; but 
when they prate of Shakspeare. I feel that it is our turn to speak. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 99 

How much of gratitude and love does every w^oman owe to him ! 
He, who has entered deeper into her heart than ever mortal did 
before or since his day, how has he painted her ? — As Portia, Ju- 
het, Constance, Hermione ; — as Cordelia, Volumnia, Isabella, Des- 
demona, Imogene ! 

Then turn and see for what we have to thank our modern paint- 
er. Who are his heroines? — Lucrece Borgia, Marion de Lorme, 
Blanche, Maguelonne, with I know not how many more of the 
same stamp ; besides his novel heroine, whom Mr. Henry Lylton 
Bulwer calls " the most delicate female ever drawn by the pen of 
romance" — The Esmeralda ! . . . whose sole accomplishments are 
dancing and singing in the streets, and who . . . delicate creature ! 
. . . being caught up by a horseman in a midnight brawl, throws 
her arms round his neck, swears he is very handsome, and thence- 
forward shows the dehcate tenderness of her nature by pertina- 
ciously doting upon him, without any other return or encourage- 
ment whatever than an insuhing caress bestowed upon her one 
night when he was drunk ..." delicate female !" 

But this is all too bad to dwell upon. It is, however, in my es- 
timation, a positive duty, when mentioning the works of Victor 
Hugo, to record a protest against their tone and tendency ; and 
it is also a duty to correct, as far as one can, the erroneous im- 
pression existing in England respecting his reputation in France. 

Whenever his name is mentioned in England, his success is 
cited as a proof of the depraved state, moral and intellectual, of 
the French people. And such it would be, were his success and 
reputation such as his partisans represent them to be. But, in 
point of fact, the manner in which he is judged by his own coun- 
trymen is the strongest possible evidence that neither a powerful 
fancy, a commanding diction, nor an imagination teeming with im- 
ages of intense passion, can suffice to ensure an author any exalt- 
ed reputation in France at the present day if he outrages good 
feeling and good taste. 

Should any doubt the correctness of this statement, I can only 
refer them to the source from whence I derived the information on 
which it is founded, — I can only refer them to France herself. 
There is one fact, however, which may be ascertained without 
crossing the Channel ; — namely, that when one of their reviews 
found occasion to introduce an article upon the modern drama, the 
editors acquitted themselves of the task by translating the whole 
of the able article upon that subject which appeared about a year 
and a half ago in the Quarterly, acknowledging to what source 
they were indebted for it. 

Were the name and the labours of Victor Hugo confined to his 
own country, it would now be high time that 1 should release you 
from him ; but it is an English critic who has said, that he has 

G 



100 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

heaved the ground from under the feet of Racine ; and you must 
indulge me for a few minutes, while I endeavour to bring the two 
parties together before you. In doing this I will be generous ; for 
1 will introduce M. Hugo in " Le Roi s'amuse," which, from the 
circumstance (the happiest, I was assured, that ever befell the au- 
thor) of its bemg withdrawn by authority from the Theatre Fran- 
Qais, has become infinitely more celebrated than any other he has 
written. 

It may be remarked by the way, that a few more such acts of 
decent watchfulness over the morals and manners of the people 
may redeem the country from the stigma it now bears, of being 
the most licentious in its theatre and its press in the world. 

The first glorious moment of being forbidden at the Franqais 
appears almost to have turned the lucky author's brain. His pre- 
face to " Le Roi s'amuse," among many other symptoms of in- 
sanity, has the following : — 

" The first emotion of the author was one of unbelief . . . The 
deed was so arbitrary as to seem incredible ... he could not give 
credit to such a stretch of insolence and folly . . . The minister had 
indeed, in the exercise of his divine right of minister, made the 
order . . . The minister had taken from him his play, his right, his 
property ; there was but one thing left — namely, to throw him, 
the poet, into the Bastile. 

*' Has there indeed, then, been such a thing as the revolution of 
July ? . . . What could be the motive of such a proceeding ? It 
seems that our censors find their morality offended by ' Le Roi 
s'amuse ;' the name alone of the author should have been a suf- 
ficient refutation of the charge (! !!)... The piece has shocked 
the modesty of the gendarmes ; the brigade Leotaud pronoun- 
ced it indeUcate ; M. Vidocq was forced to blush at it ! Halt 
there, my masters ; you have nothing to say upon this head. 
Since when is it forbidden to represent a king making love to a 
chambermaid upon the stage 1 To conduct a king into a dis- 
graceful place, even that is nothing new. The author wishes his 
art to be preserved chaste, but not prudish ... It is lamentable to 
see in what the revolution of July has terminated." 

Then follows a precis of the extravagant and hateful plot, in 
which the heroine is, as usual, " une fille seduite et perdue ;" and 
he sums it up thus pompously : — " Au fond d'un des ouvrages de 
I'auteur il y a la fatalite — au fond de celui-ci il y a la provi- 
dence."* 

I wish much that some one would collect and publish in a sep- 
arate volume all M. Victor Hugo's prefaces ; I would purchase it 
instantly, and it would be a fund of almost inexhaustible amuse- 

* The principle — the moral — developed in one of my works is fatality — of this the 
moral is an overruling Providence. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 101 

ment. He assumes a tone in them which, all things considered^ 
is perhaps unequalled in the history of literature. In another 
part of the one from which I have given the above extracts, he 
says : — 

" Vraiment, le pouvoir qui s'attaque k nous n'aura pas gagne 
grand' chose a ce que nous, hommes d'art, nous quiltions notre 
tache consciencieuse, tranquille, sincere, profonde ; notre t^che 
sainte. . . ."* What on earth, if it be not insanity, could have 
put it into M. Hugo's head that the manufacturing of his obscene 
dramas was " une tache sainte ?" 

The principal characters in " Le Roi s'amuse" are Francois 
Premier ; Triboulet, his pander and buffoon ; Blanche, the daugh- 
ter of Triboulet, " la fille seduite," and heroine of the piece ; and 
Maguelonne, another Esmeralda. 

The interest lies in the contrast between Triboulet pander and 
Triboulet pere. He is himself the most corrupt and infamous of 
men ; and, because he is humpbacked, makes it both his pastime 
and his business to lead the king his master into every species of 
debauchery : but he shuts up his daughter to preserve her purity ; 
and the poet has put forth all his strength in describing the wor- 
ship which Triboulet pere pays to the virtue which he passes his 
life as Triboulet pander in destroying. 

Of course, the king falls in love with Blanche, and she with 
him ; and Triboulet pander is made to assist in carrying her off 
in the dark, under the belief that she was the wife of a nobleman 
to whom also his majesty the king was making love. 

When Triboulet pfere and pander finds out what he has done, 
he falls into a terrible agony : and here again is a tour de force, to 
show how pathetically such a father can address such a daughter. 

He resolves to murder the king, and informs his daughter, who 
is passionately attached to her royal seducer, of his intention. 
She objects, but is at length brought to consent, by being made to 
peep through a hole in the wall, and seeing his majesty. King 
Francis, engaged in making love to Maguelonne. 

This part of the plot is brought out shortly and pithily. 

Blanche {'peeping through the hole in the wall). And this woman ! . . . how bold an(J 
shameless! Oh! 

Triboulet. Be silent and weep not — ^leave to me thy vengeance ! 
Blanche. Alas ! Do with me even as thou wilt. 
Triboulet. Thanks ! 

This merci, observe, is not said ironically, but gravely and 
gratefully. Having arranged this part of the business, he gives 
his daughter instructions as to what she is to do with herself, in 
the following sublime verses : — 

* Power will have gained but little when it shall have driven us men of letters from 
our trawquil, sincere, profound, and conscientious labour — from our holy task. 



102 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Triboulet. Listen. Go home, provide thyself with gold, 

A man's dress and horse — Then instantly set out 
For Evreux, where I speedily will join thee. 
Thou know'st the chest, beneath thy mother's picture — 
The dress is ready there — I had it made on purpose. 

Having dismissed his daughter, he settles with a gipsy-man 
named Saltabadil, who is the brother of Maguelonne, ail the de- 
tails of the murder, which is to be performed in their house, a 
small cabaret at which the foul weather and the fair Maguelonne 
induce the royal rake to pass the night. Triboulet leaves them 
an old sack in which they are to pack up the body, and promises 
to return at midnight, that he may himself see it thrown into the 
Seine. 

Blanche meanwhile departs ; but feeling some compunctious 
visitings about the proposed murder of her lover, returns, and 
again applying her ear to the hole in the wall, finds that his 
majesty is gone to bed in the garret, and that the brother and sis- 
ter are consulting about his death. Maguelonne, a very " delicate 
female," objects too ; she admires his beauty, and proposes that 
his life shall be spared, if any stranger happens to arrive whose 
body may serve to fill the sack. Blanche, in a fit of heroic ten- 
derness, determines to be that stranger ; exclaiming, 

" Eh bien ! . . . mourons pour lui !"* 

But before she knocks at the door, she kneels down to say her 
prayers, particularly for forgiveness to all her enemies. Here are 
the verses, making part of those which have overthrown Racine : — 

Blanche. Oh God, before whose throne I soon must appear, I pardon all who have done 
me wrong. Do thou, oh God, and my father, grant them also pardon ; even to the king, 
whom I love and pity. 

She knocks, the door opens, she is stabbed and consigned to the 
sack. Her father arrives immediately after as by appointment, 
receives the sack, and prepares to drag it towards the river, han- 
dling it vn\h revengeful ecstasy, and exclaiming — 

" Now, world, look on, and see a wondrous thing — 
This is a fool — and this — this was a king !" 

At this triumphant moment he hears the voice of the king, 
singing, as he walks away from the dwelling of Maguelonne. 

Triboulet. But whom, then, has he substituted for himself, the traitor ! 

He cuts open the sack ; and a flash of lightning very melodra- 
matically enables him to recognise his daughter, who revives, to 
die in his arms. 

This is beyond doubt what may be called " a tragic situation ;" 
and I confess it does seem very hard-hearted to laugh at it : but 

• Well, then ! let me die for him I 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 103 

the pas that divides the sublime from the ridiculous is not dis- 
tinctly seen, and there is something vulgar and ludicrous, both in 
the position and language of the parties, which quite destroys the 
pathetic effect. 

It must be remembered that she is dressed in the " habit 
d'homme" of vs^hich her father says so poetically — 

" I had it made on purpose." 

Observe, too, that she is still in the sack ; the stage directions be- 
ing, " Le bas du corps, qui est reste vetu, est cache dans le sac."* 

Blanche. Where am I ? 

Triboulet. Blanche, what has befallen thee ? What means this horrid mystery ? I fear 
to touch thee, lest I do thee harm ! The river is near at hand— canst thou sustain thy- 
self a moment, while I run emd get some water ? 

A surgeon arrives, and having examined her wound, says, 

" She is dead— a deep wound in her side— the blood has caused her death by suffo- 
cation." 

Triboulet. I have killed my child!— I have killed my child ! 

All this is very shocking ; but it is not tragedy, — and it is not 
poetry. Yet it is what we are told has heaved the earth from 
under Racine ! 

After such a sentence as this, it must be, I know, rococo to 
name him ; but yet I would say, in his own words, 

" D'adorateurs zeles a peine un petit nombre 
Ose des premiers temps nous retracer quelque ombre • 

Le reste 

Se fait initier a. ces honteux mysteres, 

Et blaspheme le nom qu'ont invoque leurs peres." 

As I profess myself of the petit nombre, you must let me re- 
call to your memory some of the fragments of that noble edifice 
which Racine raised over him, and which, as they say, has now 
perished under the mighty power of Victor Hugo, It will not be 
lost time to do this ; for look where you will among the splendid 
material of this uprooted temple, and you will find no morsel that 
is not precious ; nothing that is not designed, chiselled, and finished 
by the hand of a master. 

Racine has not produced dramas from ordinary life ; it was not 
his object to do so, nor is it the end he has attained. It is the 
tragedy of heroes and demigods that he has given us, and not of 
cut-purses, buffoons, and street-walkers. 

If the language of Racine be poetry, that of M. Hugo is not ; 
and wherever the one is admired, the other must of necessity be 
valueless. It would be endless to attempt giving citations to prove 
the grace, the dignity, the majestic flow of Racine's verse ; but 
let your eye run over " Iphigenie," for instance, — there also the 

* The lower part of the body, on which the dress remains, is hidden in the sack. 



104 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

loss of a daughter forms the tragic interest, — and compare such 
verses as I have quoted above with any that you can find in Racine. 
Hear the royal mother, for example, describe the scene that 
awaits her : 

" Un pr^tre environne d'une foule cruelle 
Portera sur ma fille une main criminelle, 
Dechirera son sein, et d'un ceil curieux 
Dans son coeur palpitant consultera les dieux ; 
— Et moi — qui I'amenai triomphante, adoree, 
Je m'en retournerai, seule, et desesperee." 

Surely this is of a better fabric than — 

" Tu sais ce coflfre aupres du portrait de ta mfere ; 
L'habit est la, — ^je I'ai d'avance expres fait faire." 

I have little doubt that the inspired author, when this noble 
phrase, " expres fait faire," suggested itself, felt ready to exclaim, 
in the words of Philaminte and Belise — 

" Ah ! que cet ' expres fait' est d'un gout admirable ! 
C'est a mon sentiment un endroit impayable ; 
J'entends la-dessous un million de mots. — 
— II est vrai qu'il dit plus de choses qu'il n'est gros." 

-But to take the matter seriously, let us examine a little the 
ground upon which this school of dramatic writers found their 
claim to superiority over their classic predecessors. Is it not that 
they declare themselves to be more true to nature ? And how do 
they support this claim ? Were you to read through every play 
that M. Hugo has written — (and may you long be preserved from 
so great annoyance !) — I doubt if you would find a single person- 
age with whom you could sympathize, or a single sentiment or 
opinion that you would feel true to the nature within you. 

It would be much less difficult, I conceive, so strongly to excite 
the imagination by the majestic eloquence of Racine's verses as 
to make you conscious of fellow-feeling with his sublime per- 
sonages, than to debase your very heart and soul so thoroughly as 
to enable you to fancy that you have any thing in common with 
the corrupt creations of Victor Hugo. 

But even were it otherwise — were the scenes imagined by this 
new Shakspeare more like the real villany of human nature than 
those of the noble writer he is said to have set aside, I should 
still deny that this furnished any good reason for bringing such 
scenes upon the stage. Why should we make a pastime of look- 
ing upon vulgar vice 1 Why should the lowest passions of our 
nature be for ever brought out in parade before us 1 

" It is not and it cannot be for good." 

The same reasoning might lead us to turn from the cultured 
garden, its marble terraces, its velvet lawns, its flowers and fruits 
of every clime, that we might take our pleasure in a bog — and 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 105 

for all consolation be told, when we slip and flounder about in its 
loathsome slime, that it is more natural. 

I have written you a most unmerciful letter, and it is quite time 
that I should quit the theme, for I get angry — angry that I have 
no power to express in words all I feel on this subject. Would 
that for one short hour or so I had the pen which wrote the 
" Dunciad !" — I would use it — heartily — and then take my leave 
by saying, 

, " Return to the nothingness from which I have called thee." 



LETTER XX. 

Versailles — St. Cloud. 

The Chateau de Versailles, that marvellous chef-d'ceuvre of the 
splendid taste and unbounded extravagance of Louis le Grand, is 
shut up, and has been so for the last eighteen months. . This is a 
great disappointment to such of our party as have never seen its 
interminable chambers and their gorgeous decorations. The rea- 
son assigned for this unwonted exclusion of the public is, that the 
whole of this enormous pile is filled with workmen ; not, however, 
for. the purpose of restoring it as a palace for the king, but of pre- 
paring it as a sort of universal museum for the nation. The 
buildings are in fact too extensive for a palace ; and, splendid as 
it is, I can easily believe no king of modern days would wish to 
inhabit it. I have sometimes wondered that Napoleon did not 
take a fancy to its vastness ; but, I believe, he had no great taste 
in the upholstering line, and preferred converting his millions into 
the sinews of war, to the possession of all the carving and gilding 
in the world. 

If this projected museum, however, should be monU with 
science, judgment, and taste, and on the usual scale of French 
magnificence, it will be turning the costly whim of le Grand Mo" 
narque to excellent account. 

The works which are going on there were mentioned at a 
party the other evening, when some one stated that it was the in- 
tention of the king to convert one portion of the building into a 
gallery of national history, that should contain pictures of all the 
victories which France had ever won. 

The remark made in reply amused me much, it was so very- 
French — " Ma foi ! Mais cette galerie-la doit etre bien 

longue — et assez ennuyeuse pour les etrangers."* 

* Mercy on me ! Such a gallery as that would be a very long one — and very unpleas' 
ant to foreigners. 



106 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Though the chateau was closed to us, we did not therefore give 
up our purposed expedition to Versailles : every object there is 
interesting, not only from its splendour, but from the recollections 
it revives of scenes with whose history we are all familiar. Not 
only the horrors of the last century, but all the regal glories of the 
preceding one, are so well known to everybody, that there must 
have been a prodigious deal of gossip handed down to us from 
France, or we never could feel so much better acquainted with 
events which have passed at Versailles than with any scenes that 
have occurred at an equal distance of time at Windsor. 

But so it is ; and the English go there not merely as strangers 
visiting a palace in a foreign land, but as pilgrims to the shrine 
of the princes and poets who have left their memory there, and 
with whose names and histories they are as familiar as if they 
belonged to us. 

The day we passed among the royal spectres that never fail to 
haunt one at this palace of recollections, was a mixture of sun- 
shine and showers, and our meditations seemed to partake of the 
vicissitude. 

It is said that the great Louis reared this stupendous dwelling 
in which to pass the gilded hours of his idleness, because from St. 
Germain's he could see the plain of St. Denis, over which his 
funeral array was to pass, and the spire that marked the spot 
where his too precious dust was to be laid. Happy was it for him 
that the scutcheoned sepulchre of St. Denis was the most distant 
and most gloomy point to which his prophetic glance could reach ! 
Could the great king have looked a little farther, and dreamed of 
the scenes which were destined to follow this dreaded passage to 
his royal tomb, how would he have blessed the fate which per- 
mitted him to pass into it so peacefully ! 

It is quite wonderful to see how much of the elaborate deco- 
ration and fine finishing of this sumptuous place remains uninjured 
after being visited by the most ferocious mob that ever collected 
together. Had they been less intent on the savage object of their 
mission, it is probable that they would have sated their insane 
rage in destroying the palace itself, and the costly decorations of 
its singular gardens. Though far inferior in all ways either to the 
gardens of the Elector of Hesse Cassel at Wilhelmshohe, or to 
those of the Grand Duke of Baden at Schwetzingen, those of Ver- 
sailles are still highly interesting from many causes, and have so 
much of majesty and pomp about them, that one cannot look upon 
them without feeling that only the kings of the earth could ever 
have had a master's right to take their pleasure therein. 

Before we entered upon the orderly confusion of groves, statues, 
temples, and water- works, through which it is necessary to be led, 
we made our gray-headed guide lead us round and about every 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 107 

part of the building, while we listened to his string of interesting old 
stories about Louis Seize, and Marie Antoinette, and Monsieur, and 
Le Comte d'Artois (for he seemed to have forgotten that they 
had borne any other titles than he remembered in his youth), all 
of whom seemed to retain exactly the same place in his imagina- 
tion that they had occupied some fifty years ago, when he was as- 
sistant to the keeper of the orangerie. He boasted, with a vani- 
ty as fresh as if it had been newly born, of the honours of that 
near approach to royalty which he had formerly enjoyed ; re- 
counted how the queen called one of the orange-trees her own, be- 
cause she fancied its blossoms sweeter than all the rest ; and how 
from such a broad-leafed double-blossoming myrtle he had daily 
gathered a houquet for her majesty, which was laid upon her toilet 
exactly at two o'clock. This old man knew every orange-tree, 
its birth and history, as well as a shepherd knows his flock. The 
venerable father of the band dates his existence from the reign of 
Franqois Premier, and truly he enjoys a green old age. The one 
surnamed Louis le Grand, who was twin brother, as he said, to that 
mighty monarch, looks like a youth beside it — and you are told 
that it has not yet attained its full growth. 

Oh ! could those orange-trees but speak ! could they recount to us 
the scenes they have witnessed ; could they describe to us all the 
beauties over whom they have shed their fragrant flowers — all the 
heroes, statesmen, poets, and princes who have stepped in courtly 
paces beneath their shade, what a world of witty wickedness, of 
solemn warning, and of sad reflection, we should have ! 

But though the orange-trees were mute, our old man talked 
enough for them all. He was a faithful servant to the old regime : 
and indeed it should seem that there is something in the air of Ver- 
sailles favourable alike to orange-trees and loyalty ; for never did 
I hear, while wandering amid their aristocratic perfume, one word 
that was not of sound, orthodox, legitimate loyalty to the race for 
whose service they have for so many hundred years lived and 
bloomed. And still they blossom on, unscathed by revolution, un- 
blighted though a usurper called them his ; — happier in this than 
many of those who were once privileged to parade their dignity 
beneath their royal shade. The old servitors still move among 
these venerable vegetable grandees with the ceremonious air of 
courtiers, offering obsequious service, if not to the king himself, at 
least to his cousin-germans ; and I am persuaded there is not one 
of these old serving-men, who wander about Versailles like ghosts 
revisiting the scenes of former happiness, who would not more 
humbly pull ofi" his hat to Fran(^ois Premier or Louis le Grand 
in the green-house, than to any monarch of a younger race. 

Napoleon has left less trace of himself and his giant power at 
Versailles than anywhere else ; and the naiads and hamadryads still 



108 ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

lift their sculptured heads with such an eternity of stately grace, 
as makes one feel the evanescent nature of the interlude that was 
played among them during the empire. It is of the old race of 
Bourbon that the whole region is redolent. " There," said our 
old guide, " is the range of chambers that was occupied by the 
Queen . . . those were the King's apartments . . . there were the 
royal children . . . there Monsieur . . . and there the Comte d'Ar- 
tois." 

Then we were led round to the fatal balcony which overhangs 
the entrance. It was there that the fallen Marie Antoinette stood, 
her young son in her arms, and the doomed king her husband be- 
side her, when she looked down upon the demons drunk with 
blood who sought her life. I had heard all this hateful but o'er- 
true history more than once before on the same spot, and short- 
ening the frightful detail, I hastened to leave it, though I believe 
the good old man would willingly have spent hours in dwelling 
upon it. 

The day had been named as one on which the great waters 
were to play. But, Httle as Nature has to do with this pretty ex- 
hibition, she interfered on this occasion to prevent it. There was 
no water. The dry weather would, they told us, probably render 
it impossible to play them during the whole summer. 

Here was another disappointment ; but we bore it heroically, 
and after examining and much admiring the numberless allegories 
which people the grounds, and to the creation of which a poet 
must have been as necessary as a sculptor, we adjourned to the 
Trianons, there to meditate on all the ceaseless vicissitudes of fe- 
male influence from Maintenon to Josephine. It is but a sad re- 
view, but it may serve well to reconcile the majority of woman- 
kind to the tranquil dreaminess of obscurity. 

The next thing to be done was dining — and most wretchedly 
done it was : but we found something to laugh at nevertheless ; 
for when the wine brought us was found too bad to drink, and we 
ordered better, no less than four bottles were presented to us in suc- 
cession, each one increasing in price, but being precisely of the same 
quality. When we charged the black-eyed daughter of the house 
with the fact, she said, with perfect good-humour, but nowise de- 
nying it, that she was very sorry they had no better. When the 
bill was brought, the same damsel civilly hoped that we should 
not think ten sous (half a franc) too much to pay for having opened 
so many bottles. Now, as three of them were firmly corked, and 
carefully sealed besides, we paid our ten sous without any com- 
plaining. 

The looking at a fete at St. Cloud made part of the business of 
the day ; but, in order to get there, we were obliged to mount into 
one of those indescribable vehicles by which the gay bourgeoisie 



ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 109 

of Paris are conveyed from palace to palace, and from guingueiie 
to guinguette. We had dismissed our comfortable citadine, being 
assured that we should have no difficulty in finding another. In 
this, however, we were disappointed, the proportion of company 
appearing greatly to exceed that of the carriages which were to con- 
vey them, and we considered ourselves fortunate in securing places 
,in an equipage which we should have scorned indignantly when 
we quitted Paris in the morning. 

The whimsical gayety of the crowd, all hurrying one way, was 
very amusing ; all anxious to reach St. Cloud before the promised 
half hour's display of water-works were over ; all testifying, by 
look, gesture, voice, and words, that Hght effervescence of animal 
spirits so essentially characteristic of the country, and all forming 
a moving panorama so gay and so bright as almost to make one 
giddy by looking at it. 

Some among the capricious variety of vehicles were drawn by 
five or six horses. These were in truth nothing but gayly-painted 
wagons, hung on rude springs, with a flat awning over them. In 
several I counted twenty persons ; but there were some few among 
them in which one or perhaps two seats were still vacant — and 
then the rapturous glee of the party was excited to the utmost by 
the efforts of the driver, as gay as themselves, to obtain customers 
to fill the vacancies. 

Every individual overtaken on the road was invited by the most 
clamorous outcries to occupy the vacant seats. " St. Cloud ! St. 
Cloud ! St. Cloud !" shouted by the driver and re-echoed by all his 
company, rang in the startled ears of all they passed ; and if a travel- 
ler soberly journeying in the contrary direction was met, the invita- 
tion was uttered with tenfold vehemence, accompanied by shouts of 
laughter ; which, far from offending the party who provoked it, 
was invariably answered with equal frolic and fun. But when 
upon one occasion a carriage posting almost at full gallop towards 
Versailles was encountered, the ecstasy of mirth with which it 
was greeted exceeds description. " St. Cloud ! St. Cloud ! St. 
Cloud ! — Tournez done, messieurs — tournez a St. Cloud !" The 
shouts and vociferations were enough to frighten all the horses in 
the world excepting French ones ; and they must be so thoroughly 
broken to the endurance of din, that there is httle danger of their 
starting at it. I could have almost fancied that upon this occasion 
they took part in it ; for they shook their ropes and their tassels, 
snorted and tossed, very much as if they enjoyed the fun. 

After all, we, and many hundred others, arrived too late for the 
show, the supply of water failing even before the promised half 
hour had elapsed. The gardens, however, were extremely full, 
and all the world looked as gay and as well-pleased as if nothing 
had gone wrong. 



110 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

I wonder if these people ever grow old — that is, old as we do, 
sitting in the chimney-corner, and dreaming no more of fetes than, 
of playing at blind-man's-buff. I have certainly seen here, as 
elsewhere, men, and women too, grayheaded and wrinkled enough 
to be as solemn as the most venerable judge upon the bench ; but 
I never saw any that did not seem ready to hop, skip, jump, waltz, 
and make love. 



LETTER XXI. 

History of the Vicomte deB . — His opinions — State of France — Expediency. 

I HAVE had a curious conversation this morning with an old gen- 
tleman whom I believed to be a thorough legitimate, but who turns 
out, as you will see, something else — I hardly know what to call 
it — doctrinaire I suppose it must be, yet it is not quite that either. 

But before I give you his opinions, let me present himself. M. 

le Vicomte de B is a person that I am very sure you would 

be happy to know anywhere. His residence is not in Paris, but 
at a chateau that he describes as the most profound retirement 
•p^aginable ; yet it is not more than thirty leagues from Paris. He 
/s a widower, and his only child is a daughter, who has been some 
years married. 

The history of this gentleman, given as he gave it himself, was 
deeply interesting. It was told with much feeling, some wit, and no 
prolixity. Were I, however, to attempt to repeat it to you in the 
same manner, it would become long and tedious, and in every way 
as unlike as possible to what it was as it came fresh from the living 
fountain. 

In brief, then, I will tell you that he was the younger son of an 
old and noble house, and, for seven years, page to Louis Seize. 
He must have been strikingly handsome ; and, young as he was 
at the time of the first revolution, he seems already to have found 
the court a very agreeable residence. He had held a commission 
in the army about two years, when his father, and his only broth- 
er, his elder by ten years, were obliged to leave the country to 
save their lives. 

The family was not a wealthy one, and great sacrifices were 
necessary to enable them to live in England. What remained be- 
came eventually the property of our friend, both father and broth- 
er having died in exile. With this remnant of fortune he married, 
not very prudently ; and having lost his wife and disposed of his 
daughter in marriage, he is now living in his large dilapidated 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 111 

chateau, with one female servant, and an old man as major-domo, 
valet, and cook, who served with him in La Vendee, and who, by 
his description, must be a perfect Corporal Trim. 

I would give a good deal to be able to accept the invitation I 
have received, to pay him a visit at his castle. I think I should 
find just such a menage as that which Scott so beautifully describes 
in one of his prefaces. But the wish is vain, such an excursion 
being quite impossible ; so I must do without the castle, and con- 
tent myself with the long morning visits that its agreeable owner 
is so kind as to make us. 

I have seen him frequently, and listened with great interest to 
his little history; but it was only this morning that the conversa- 
tion took a speculative turn. I was quite persuaded, but certainly 
from my own preconceived notions only, and not from any thing 

I have heard him say, that M. de B was a devoted legitimate. 

An old noble — page to Louis Seize — a royalist soldier in La Ven- 
dee, — how could I think otherwise ? Yet he talked to me as . . . 
you shall hear. 

Our conversation began by his asking me if I was conscious of 
much material change in Paris since I last visited it. 

I replied, that I certainly saw some, but perhaps suspected 
more. 

" 1 dare say you do," said he ; " it is what your nation is very 
apt to do : but take my advice, — believe what you see, and noth- 
ing else." 

" But what one can see in the course of a month or two is so 
little, and I hear so much." 

" That is true ; but do you not find that what you hear from 
one person is often contradicted by another ?" 

" Constantly," I replied. 

" Then what can you do at last but judge by what you see ?" 

*' Why, it appears to me that the better plan would be to listen 
to all parties, and let my balancing belief incline to the testimony 
that has most weight." 

" Then be careful that this weight be not false. There are some 
who will tell you that the national feeling which for so many cen- 
turies has kept France together as a powerful and predominating 
people, is loosened, melted, and gone ; — that, though there are 
Frenchmen left, there is no longer a French people." 

" To any who told me so," I replied, " I would say that the 
division they complained of arose not so much from any change 
in the French character, as from the false position in which 
many were unhappily placed at the present moment. Men's 
hearts are divided because they are diversely drawn aside from a 
common centre." 

" And you would say truly," said he ; " but others will tell you. 



112 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

that regenerated France will soon dictate laws to the whole earth ; 
that her flag will become the flag of all people — her government 
their government ; and that their tottering monarchies will soon 
crumble into dust, to become part and parcel of her glorious re- 
public." 

" And to these I should say, that they appeared to be in a very 
heavy slumber, and that the sooner they could awake out of it 
and shake off their feverish dreams, the better it would be for 
them." 

" But what would your inference be as to the state of the coun- 
try from such reports as these ?" 

" I should think that, as usual, truth lay between, I should 
neither believe that France was so united as to constitute a single- 
minded giant, nor so divided as to have become a mass of uncon- 
nected atoms, or a race of pigmies." 

" You know," he continued, "that the fashionable phrase for de- 
scribing our condition at present is, that we are in a state of transi- 
tion, — from butterflies to grubs, or from grubs to butterflies, I 
know not which ; but to me it seems that the transition is over, — 
and it is high time that it should be so. The country has known 
neither rest nor peace for nearly half a century ; and powerful as 
she has been and still is, she must at last fall a prey to whoever 
may think it worth their while to despoil her, unless she stops 
short while it is yet time, and strengthens herself by a little sea- 
sonable repose." 

" But how is this repose to be obtained ?" said I. " Some of 
you wish to have one king, some another, and some to have no 
king at all. This is not a condition in which a country is very 
likely to find repose." 

" Not if each faction be of equal power, or sufficiently so to 
persevere in struggling for the mastery. Our only hope hes in the 
behef that there is no such equality. Let him who has seized the 
helm keep it : if he be an able helmsman, he will keep us in 
smooth water ; — and it is no longer time for us to ask how he got 
his commission ; let us be thankful that he happens to be of the 
same lineage as those to whose charge we have for so many ages 
committed the safety of our bark." 

I believe my countenance expressed my astonishment ; for the 
old gentleman smiled and said, 

" Do I frighten you with my revolutionary principles ?" 

" Indeed, you surprise me a little," I replied : " I should ha' 
thought that the rights of a legitimate monarch would be in your 
opinion indefeisible." 

" Where is the law, my good lady, that may control necessity ? — 
I speak not of my own feelings, or of those of the few who were 
born like myself in another era. Very terrible convulsions have 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 113 

passed over France, and perhaps threaten the rest of Europe. I 
have for many years stood apart and watched the storm ; and I 
am quite sure, and find much comfort in the assurance, that the 
crimes and passions of men cannot change the nature of things. 
They may produce much misery, they may disturb and confuse 
the peaceful current of events ; but man still remains as he was, 
and will seek his safety and his good, where he has ever founa 
them — under the shelter of power." 

" There, indeed, I quite agree with you. But surely the more 
lawful and right the power is, the more likely it is to remain tran- 
quil and undisputed in its influence." 

" France has no longer the choice," said he, interrupting me 
abruptly. " I speak but as a looker-on ; my political race is 
ended ; I have more than once sworn allegiance to the elder 
branch of the house of Bourbon, and certainly nothing would 
tempt me to hold office or take oath under any other. But do 
you think it would be the duty of a Frenchman who has three 
grandsons native to the soil of France, — do you really think it the 
duty of such a one to invoke civil war upon the land of his fathers, 
and, remembering only his king, to forget his country 1 I will not 
tell you, that if 1 could wake to-morrow morning, and find a fifth 
Henry peaceably seated on the throne of his fathers, I might not 
rejoice ;. particularly if I were sure that he would be as likely to 
keep the naughty boys of Paris in order, as I think his cousin 
Philippe is. Were there profit in wishing, I would wish for 
France a government so strong as should effectually prevent her 
from destroying herself; and that government should have af its 
head a king whose right to reign had come to him, not by force of 
arms, but by the will of God in lawful succession. But when we 
mortals have a wish, we may be thankful if the half of it be 
granted ; — and, in truth, I think that I have the first and better 
half of mine to rejoice in. There is a stout and sturdy strength 
in the government of King Philippe, which gives good hope that 
France may recover under its protection from her sins and her 
sorrows, and again become the glory of her children." 

So saying, M. de B rose to leave me, and putting out his 

hand in the English fashion, added, " I am afraid you do not like 
me so well as you did .... I am no longer a true and loyal 
knight in your estimation .... but something, perhaps, very like 
a rebel and a traitor ? ... Is it not so ?" 

I hardly knew how to answer him. He certainly had lost a 
good deal of that poetical elevation of character with which I had 
invested him ; yet there was a mixture of honesty and honour in 
his frankness that I could not help esteeming. I thanked him 
very sincerely for the openness with which he had spoken, but 
confessed that I had not quite made up my mind to think that ex- 

H 



114 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

pediency was the right rule for human actions. It certainly was 
not the noblest, and therefore I was willing to believe that it was 
not the best. 

" I must go," said he, looking at his watch, " for it is my hour 
of dining, or I think I could dispute with you a little upon your 
word expediency. Whatever is really expedient for us to do — 
that is, whatever is best for us in the situation in which we are 
actually placed, is really right. Adieu ! — I shall present myself 
again ere long ; and if you admit me, I shall be thankful." 

So saying, he departed, — leaving us all, I believe, a little less 
in alt about him than before, but certainly with no inclination to 
shut our doors against him. 



LETTER XXII. 

P&re Lachaise — Mourning in public — Defacing the Tomb of Abelard and Elo'isa — Baron 
Munchausen — Russian Monument — Statue of Manuel. 

Often as I have visited the enclosure of Pere Lachaise, it 
was with feelings of renewed curiosity and interest that I )rester- 
day accompanied thither those of my party who had not yet seen 
it. I was well pleased to wander once more through the cypress 
alleys, now grown into fine gloomy funereal shades, and once more 
to feel that wavering sort of emotion which I always experience 
there ; — one moment being tempted to smile at the fantastic man- 
ner in which affection has been manifested, — and the next, moved 
to tears by some touch of tenderness, that makes itself felt even 
amid the vast collection of childish superstitions with which the 
place abounds. 

This mournful garden is altogether a very solemn and impres- 
sive spectacle. What a world of mortality does one take in at 
one glance ! It will set one thinking a little, however fresh from 
the busy idleness of Paris, — of Paris, that antidote to all serious 
thought, that especial paradise for the worshippers of Sans Souci. 

A profusion of spring flowers are at this season hourly shedding 
their blossoms over every little cherished enclosure. There is 
beauty, freshness, fragrance on the surface . . It is a fearful con- 
trast ! 

I do not remember any spot, either m church or churchyard, 
where the unequal dignity of the memorials raised above the dust, 
which lies so very equally beneath them all, is shown in a manner 
to strike the heart so forcibly as it does at Pere Lachaise. Here, 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 115 

a shovelful of weeds have hardly room to grow ; and there rises 
a cosily pile, shadowing its lowly neighbour. On this side the 
narrow path, sorrow is wrapped round and hidden from notice by 
the very poverty that renders it more bitter ; while, on the other, 
wealth, rank, and pride heap decorations over the worthless clay, 
striving vainly to conceal its nothingness. It is an epitome of the 
world they have left : remove the marble and disturb the turf, 
human nature will be found to wear the same aspect under both. 

Many groups in deep mourning were wandering among the 
tombs ; so many, indeed, that when we turned aside from one, 
with the reverence one always feels disposed to pay to sorrow, we 
were sure to encounter another. This manner of lamenting in 
public seems so strange to us ! How would it be for a shy Eng- 
lish mother, who'sobs inwardly and hides the aching sorrow in 
her heart's core, — how would she bear to bargain at the public 
gate for a pretty garland, then enter amid an idle throng, with the 
toy hanging on her finger, and, before the eyes of all who choose 
to look, suspend it over the grave of her lost child ? An English- 
woman surely must lose her reason either before or after such an 
act ; — if it were not the effect of madness, it would be the cause 
of it. Yet such is the effect of habit, or rather of the different 
tone of manners and of mind here, that one may daily and hourly 
see parents, most devoted to their children during their lives, and 
most heartbroken when divided from them by death, perform 
with streaming eyes these public lamentations. 

It is nevertheless impossible, let the manner of it differ from 
our own as much as it may, to look at the freshly-trimmed flowers, 
the garlands, and all the pretty tokens of tender care which meet 
the eye in every part of this wide-spread mass of mortal nothing- 
ness, without feeling that real love and real sorrow have been at 
work. 

One small enclosure attracted my attention as at once the most 
bizarre and the most touching of all. It held the little grassy 
tomb of a young child, planted round with choice flowers ; and 
at its head rose a semicircular recess, containing, together with a 
crucifix and other religious emblems, several common playthings, 
which had doubtless been the latest joy of the lost darling. His 
age was stated to have been three years, and he was mourned as 
the first and only child after twelve years of marriage. 

Below this melancholy statement was inscribed — 
" Passans ! priez pour sa malheureuse mfere !"* 

Might we not say that 

" Ttiought and affliction, passion, death itself 
They turn to favour and to prettiness ?" 

* Reader ! pray for his unhappy mother ! 

H2 



116 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

It would, I believe, be more just, as well as more generous, 
instead of accusing the whole nation of being the victims of af- 
fectation instead of sorrow under every affliction that death can 
cause, to believe that they feel quite as sincerely as ourselves *, 
though they have certainly a very different way of showing it. 

I wish they, whoever they are, who had the command of such 
matters, had let the curious tomb of Abelard and Eloisa remain in 
decent tranquillity in its original position. Nothing can assimilate 
worse than do its Gothic form and decorations with every object 
around it. The paltry plaster tablet, too, that has been stuck upon 
it for the purpose of recording the history of the tomb rather than 
of those who lie buried in it, is in villanously bad taste ; and we 
can only hope that the elements will complete the work they have 
begun, and then this barbarous defacing will crtfftible away before 
our grandchildren shall know any thing about it. 

The thickly-planted trees and shrubs have grown so rapidly, as 
in many places to make it difficult to pass through them ; and the 
ground appears to be extremely crowded nearly over its whole 
extent. A few neighbouring acres have been lately added to it ; 
but their bleak, naked, and unornamented surface forbids the eye 
as yet to recognise this space as part of the enclosure. One pale 
solitary tomb is placed within it, at the very verge of the dark 
cypress line that marks the original boundary ; and it looks like a 
sheeted ghost hovering about between night and morning. 

One very noble monument has been added since I last visited 
the garden : it is dedicated to the memory of a noble Russian lady, 
whose long unspellable name I forget. It is of white or grayish 
marble, and of magnificent proportions, — ^lofty and elegant, yet 
massive, and entirely simple. Altogether, it appeared to me to 
be as perfect in taste as any specimen of monumental architecture 
that I have ever seen, though it had not the last best grace of 
sculpture to adorn it. There is no effigies — no statue — scarcely 
an ornament of any kind, but it seems constructed with a view to 
unite equally the appearance of imposing majesty and enduring 
strength. This splendid mausoleum stands near the top of the 
garden, and forms a predominating and very beautiful object from 
various parts of it. 

Among the hundreds of names which one reads in passing, — I 
hardly know why, for they certainly convey but small interest to 
the mind, — we met with that of the Baron Munchausen. It was 
a small and unpretending-looking stone, but bore a host of blazing 
titles, by which it appears that this baron, whom I, and all my 
generation, I believe, have ever looked upon as an imaginary per- 
sonage, was, in fact, something or other very important to some- 
body or other who was very powerful. Why his noble name has 
been made such use of among us, I cannot imagine. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 117 

In the course of our wanderings we came upon this singular 
inscription : — 

" Ci-git Caroline," — (I think the name is Caroline,) — " fille de 
Mademoiselle Mars."* 

Is it not wonderful what a difference twenty-one miles of salt 
water can make in the ways and manners of people ? 

There are not many statues in the cemetery, and none of suflEi- 
cient merit to add much to its embellishment ; but there is one 
recently placed there, and standing loftily predominant above every 
surrounding object, which is strongly indicative of the period of 
its erection, and of the temper of the people to whom it seems to 
address itself. This is a colossal figure of Manuel. The coun- 
tenance is vulgar, and the expression of the features violent and 
exaggerated : it might stand as the portrait of a bold factious rebel 
for ever. 



LETTER XXIII. 

Remarkable People — Distinguished People — Metaphysical Lady. 

Last night we passed our soiree at the house of a lady who 
had been introduced to me with this recommendation : — " You 
will be certain of meeting at Madame de V 's many remark- 
able PEOPLE." 

This is, I think, exactly the sort of introduction which would 
in any city give the most piquant interest to a new acquaintance ; 
but it does so particularly at Paris ; for this attractive capital 
draws its collection of remarkable people from a greater variety 
of nations, classes, and creeds, than any other. 

Nevertheless, this term " remarkable people" must not be taken 
too confidently to mean individuals so distinguished that all men 
would desire to gaze upon them ; the phrase varying in its value 
and its meaning according to the feelings, faculties, and station 
of the speaker. 

Everybody has got his or her own " remarkable people" to in- 
troduce to you ; and I have begun to find out, among the houses 
that are open to me, what species of " remarkable people" I am 
likely to meet at each. 

When Madame A • whispers to me as I enter her drawing- 
room — " Ah ! vous voila ! c'est bon ; j'aurais ete bien fachee si 
vous m'aviez manquee ; il y a ici, ce soir, une personne bien re- 

* Here lies Caroline, daughter of Mademoiselle Mars. 



118 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

marquable, qu'il faut absolument vous presenter"* — I am quite 
sure that I shall see some one who has been a marshal, or a duke, 
or a general, or a physician, or an actor, or an artist, to Napo- 
leon. 

But if it were Madame B who said the same thing, I should 

be equally certain that it must be a comfortable-looking doctri- 
naire, who was, had been, or was about to be in place, and who 
had made his voice heard on the winning side. 

Madame C , on the contrary, would not deign to bestow 

such an epithet on any one whose views and occupations were so 
earthward. It could only be some philosopher, pale with the la- 
bour of reconciling paradoxes or discovering a new element. 

My charming, quiet, graceful, gentle Madame D could use 

it only when speaking of an ex-chancellor, or chamberlain, or 
friend, or faithful servant of the exiled dynasty. 

As for the tall, dark-browed Madame E , with her thin lips 

and sinister smile, though she professes to hold a salon where tal- 
ent of every party is welcome, she never cares much, I am very 
sure, for any remarkableness that is not connected with the great 
and immortal mischief of some revolution. She is not quite old 
enough to have had any thing to do with the first ; but I have no 
doubt that she was very busy during the last, and I am positive 
that she will never know peace by night or day till another can 
be got up. If her hopes fail on this point, she will die of atrophy ;. 
for nothing affords her nourishment but what is mixed up with re- 
bellion against constituted authority. 

I know that she dislikes me ; and I suspect I owe the honour 
of being admitted to appear in her presence solely to her deter- 
mination that I should hear every thing that she thinks it would 
be disagreeable for me to listen to. I believe she fancies that I 
do not like to meet Americans ; but she is as much mistaken in 
this as in most other of her speculations. 

I really never saw or heard of any fanaticism equal to that with 
\yhich this lady worships destruction. That whatever is is wrong, 
is the rule by which her judgment is guided in all things. It is 
enough for her that a law on any point is established, to render the 
thing legalized detestable ; and were the republic about which she 
raves, and of which she knows as much as her lapdog, to be estab- 
lished throughout France to-morrow, I am quite persuaded that 
we should have her embroidering a regal robe for the most legiti- 
mate king she could find before next Monday. 

Madame F 's remarkahles are almost all of them foreigners 

of the philosophic revolutionary class ; any gentry that are not 

* Ah, you have come, then; I should be very sony if you had disappointed me. 
There is to be a very remarkable person here to-night ; one whom it is indispensable 
that you should see. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 119 

particularly well off at home, and who would rather prefer being 
remarkable and remarked a few hundred miles from their own 
country than in it. 

Madame G 's are chiefly musical personages. " Croyez- 

moi, madame," she says, " il n'y a que lui pour toucher le piano 

.... Vous n'avez pas encore entendu Mademoiselle Z . . , . 

Quelle voix superbe ! . . . Elle fera,j'en suis sure, une fortune im- 
mense h. Londres."* 

Madame H 's acquaintance are not so " remarkable" for any 

thing peculiar in each or any of them, as for being in all things ex- 
actly opposed to each other. She likes to have her parties de- 
scribed as " Les soirees antithetiques de Madame H ," and 

has a peculiar sort of pleasure in seeing people sitting side by side 
on her hearth-rug, who would be very likely to salute each other 
with a pistol-shot were they to meet elsewhere. It is rather a sin- 
gular device for arranging a sociable party ; but her soirees are 
very delightful soirees, for all that. 

Madame J 's friends are not "remarkable ;" they are " dis- 
tinguished." It is quite extraordinary what a number of distin- 
guished individuals I have met at her house. 

But I must not go on through the whole alphabet, lest I should 
tire you. So let me return to the point from whence I set out, and 

take you with me to Madame de V 's soiree. A large party is 

almost always a sort of lottery, and your good or bad fortune 
depends on the accidental vicinity of pleasant or unpleasant neigh- 
bours. 

I cannot consider myself to have gained a prize last night; 
and Fortune, if she means to make things even, must place me 
to-night next the most agreeable person in Paris. I really think 
that, should the same evil chance that beset me yesterday pur- 
sue me for a week, I should leave the country to escape from it. 
I will describe to you the manner of my torment as well as I can, 
but must fail, I think, to give you an adequate idea of it. 

A lady I had never seen before walked across the room to me last 
night soon after I entered it, and, making prisoner of Madame de 

V in the way, was presented to me in due form. I was placed 

on a sofa by an old gentleman with whom we have formed a great 
friendship, and for whose conversation I have a particular liking : 
he had just seated himself beside me, when my new acquaintance 
dislodged him by saying, as she attempted to squeeze herself in 
between us, " Pardon, monsieur ; ne vous derangez pas ! . . . mais 
si madame voulait bien me permettre"! .... and before she could 

* Take my word for it, he has not his equal on the piano . . . You have not yet 
heard Mademoiselle Z . Such a glorious voice ! She will make a fortune in Lon- 
don. 

t Excuse me— don't move — but if madam will have the goodness to allow me — 



120 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

finish her speech, my old acquaintance was far away and my new 
one close beside me. 

She began the conversation by some very obliging assurances of 
her wish to make my acquaintance. " I want to discuss with you," 
said she. I bowed, but trembled inwardly, for I do not like dis- 
cussions, especially with " remarkable" ladies. " Yes," she con- 
tinued, " I want to discuss with you many topics of vital interest 
to us all — topics on which I beheve we now think differently, but 
on which I feel quite sure that we should agree, would you but 
listen to me." 

I smiled and bowed, and muttered something civil, and looked 
as much pleased as I possibly could, — and recollected, too, how 
large Paris was, and how easy it would be to turn my back upon 
conviction, if I found that I could not face it agreeably. But, to 
say truth, there was something in the eye and manner of my new 
friend that rather alarmed me. She is rather pretty, nevertheless ; 
but her bright eyes are never still for an instant, and she is one of 
those who aid the power of speech by that of touch, to which she 
has incessant recourse. Had she been a man, she would have 
seized all her friends by the button ; but, as it is, she can only lay 
her fingers with emphasis upon your arm, or grasp a handful of 
your sleeve, when she sees reason to fear that your attention wan- 
ders. 

" You are a legitimatist ! . . . quel dommage ! Ah ! you smile. 
But did you know the incalculable injury done to the intellect by 
putting chains upon it ! . . . My studies, observe, are confined al- 
most wholly to one subject, — the philosophy of the human mind. 
Metaphysics have been the great object of my life from a very 
early age." (I should think she was now about seven or eight- 
and-twenty.) " Yet sometimes I have the weakness to turn aside 
from this noble pursuit, to look upon the troubled current of hu- 
man affairs that is rolling past me. I do not pretend to enter 
deeply into politics — I have no time for it ; but I see enough to 
make me shrink from despotism and legitimacy. Believe me, it 
cramps the mind ; and be assured that a constant succession of 
political changes keeps the faculties of a nation on the qui vive, 
and, abstractedly considered as a mental operation, must be incal- 
culably more beneficial than the half-dormant state which takes 
place after any long continuance in one position, let it be what it 
may." 

She uttered all this with such wonderful rapidity, that it would 
have been quite impossible for me to make any observation upoR 
it as she went along, if I had been ever so much inclined to do so 
But I soon found that this was not expected of me. 

" 'Twas hers to speak, and mifle to hear ^'' 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 1:2^ 

and I made up my mind to listen as patiently as I could, till I 
should find a convenient opportunity for changing my place. 

At different times, and in diiFerent climes, I have heretofore lis- 
tened to a good deal of nonsense, certainly ; but I assure you I 
never did nor ever can expect again to hear such a profusion of 
wild absurdity as this lady uttered. Yet I am told that she has, 
in many circles, the reputation of being a woman of genius. It 
would be but a vain attempt did I endeavour to go on remember- 
ing and translating all she said ; but some of her speeches really 
deserve recording. 

After she had run her tilt against authority, she broke off, ex- 
claiming — 

" Mais, apres tout, — -what does it signify ? . . . When you have 
once devoted yourself to the study of the soul, all these little dis- 
tinctions do appear so trifling !....! have given myself wholly 
to the study of the soul ; and my life passes in a series of exper- 
iments, which, if I do not wear myself out here," putting her 
hand to her forehead, " will, I think, eventually lead me to some- 
thing important." 

As she paused for a moment, I thought I ought to say some- 
thing, and therefore asked her of what nature were the experi- 
ments of which she spoke. To which she replied — 

" Principally in comparative anatomy. None but an experi- 
mentalist could ever imagine what extraordinary results arise from 
this best and surest mode of investigation. A mouse, for in- 
stance .... Ah, madame ! would you believe it possible that the 
formation of a mouse could throw light upon the theory of the 
noblest feeling that warms the heart of man — even upon valour ? 
It is true, I assure you : such are the triumphs of science. By 
watching the pulsations of that chetif animal," she continued, ea- 
gerly laying hold of my wrist, " we have obtained an immense 
insight into the most interesting phenomena of the passion of 
fear." 

At this moment my old gentleman came back to me, but evi- 
dently without any expectation of being able to resume his seat. 
It was only, I believe, to see how I got on with my metaphysical 
neighbour. There was an infinite deal of humour in the glance 
he gave me as he said, " Eh bien, Madame Trollope, est-ce que 
Madame vous a donne I'ambition de la suivre dans ses sub- 
limes etudes ?"* 

" I fear it would prove beyond my strength," I replied. Upon 

which Madame started off anew in praise of her science — 

" the only science worthy the name ; the science . . . ." 

Here my old friend stole off again, covered by an approaching 

* Well, Mrs. Trollope, has Madam succeeded in inspiring you with an ambition 

to join her in her subhme researches T 



122 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

tray of ices ; and I soon after did the same, for I had been busily- 
engaged all day, and I was weary, — so weary, that I dreaded drop- 
ping to sleep at the very instant that Madame was exerting 

herself to awaken me to a higher state of intelligence. 

I have not, however, told you one tenth part of the marvellous 
absurdities she poured forth ; yet I suspect I have told you 
enough. I have never before met any thing so pre-eminently ri- 
diculous as this : but, upon my saying so to my old friend as I 
passed him near the door, he assured me that he knew another 
lady, whose mania was education, and whose doctrines and man- 
ner of explaining them were decidedly more absurd than Madame 
's philosophy of the soul. 

" Be not alarmed, however ; I shall not bestow her upon you, 
for I intend most carefully to keep out of her way. Do you know 
of any English ladies thus devoted to the study of the soul?" , . . 
I am sincerely happy to say that I do not. 



LETTER XXIV. 

Expedition to the Luxembourg — No admittance for Females — Portraits of "Henri" — 
Republican Costume — Quai Voltaire — Mural Inscriptions — ^Anecdote of Marshal Lo- 
bau — Arrest. 

Ever since the trials at the Luxembourg commenced, we have 
intended to make an excursion thither, in order to look at the en- 
campment in the garden, at the military array around the palace, 
and, in short, to see all thafis visible for female eyes in the gen- 
eral aspect of the place, so interesting at the present moment from 
the important business going on there. 

I have done all that could be done to obtain admission to the 
chamber during their sittings, and have not been without friends 
who very kindly interested themselves to render my efforts suc- 
cessful — but in vain ; no ladies have been permitted to enter. 
Whether the feminine regrets have been lessened or increased by 
the daily accounts that are published of the outrageous conduct of 
the prisoners, I will not venture to say. Oest egal ; get in we 
cannot, whether we wish it or not. It is said, indeed, that in one 
of the tribunes set apart for the public, a small white hand has 
been seen to caress some jet-black curls upon the head of a boy; 

and it was said, too, that the boy called himself George S d : 

but I have heard of no other instance of any one not furnished 
with that important symbol of prerogative, une harhe au menton, 
who has ventured within the proscribed limits. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 123 

Our humble-minded project of looking at the walls which en- 
close the blustering rebels and their patient judges has been at 
length happily accomplished, and not without affording us con- 
siderable amusement. 

In addition to our usual party, we had the pleasure of being ac- 
companied by two agreeable Frenchmen, who promised to explain 
whatever signs and symbols might meet our eyes but mock our 
comprehension. As the morning was delightful, we agreed to 
walk to the place of our destination, and repose ourselves as much 
as the tossings of a fiacre would permit on the way home. 

That our route lay through the Tuileries Gardens was one rea- 
son for this arrangement ; and, as usual, we indulged ourselves for 
a delightful half hour by sitting under the trees. 

Whenever six or eight persons wish to converse together — not 
in tete-d-tete, but in a general confabulation, I would recommend 
exactly the place we occupied for the purpose, with the chairs of 
the party drawn together, not spread into a circle, but collected in 
a group, so that every one can hear, and every one can be heard. 

Our conversation was upon the subject of various prints which 
we had seen exposed upon the Boulevards as we passed ; and 
though our two Frenchmen were excellent friends, it was very 
evident that they did not hold the same opinions in politics ; — so 
we had some very pleasant sparring. 

We have been constantly in the habit of remarking a variety of 
portraits of a pretty, elegant-looking youth, sometimes totally with- 
out letters — and yet they were not proofs, excepting of an antique 
loyalty — sometimes with the single word "Henri!" — sometimes 
with a sprig of the pretty weed we call " Forget-me-not," — and 
sometimes with the name of " Le Due de Bordeaux." As we 
passed one of the cases this morning which stand out before a large 
shop on the Boulevards, I remarked a new one : it was a pretty 
lithographic print, and being very like an original miniature which 
had been kindly shown me during a visit I paid in the Faubourg 
St. Germain, I stopped to buy it, and, writing my name on the en- 
velope, ordered it to be sent home. 

M. P , the gentleman who was walking beside me when I 

stopped, confirmed my opinion that it was a likeness, by his per- 
sonal knowledge of the original ; and it was not difficult to per- 
ceive, though he spoke but little on the subject, that an affectionate 
feeling for " the cause" and its young hero was at his heart. 

. M. de L , the other gentleman who had joined our party, 

was walking behind us, and came up as I was making my pur- 
chase. He smiled. "I see what you are about," said he : "if 

you and P continue to walk together, I am sure you will plot 

some terrible treason before you get to the Luxembourg." 

When we were seated in the Tuileries Gardens, M. de L 



124 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

renewed his attack upon me for what he called my seditious con- 
duct in having encouraged the vender of a prohibited article, and 
declared that he thought he should but do his duty if he left M. 

P and myself in safe custody among the other rebellious 

characters at the Luxembourg. 

" My sedition," replied M. P , " is but speculative. The 

best among us now can only sigh that things are not quite as they 
should be, and be thankful that they are not quite as bad as they 
might be." 

" I rejoice to find that you allow so much, mon cher," replied 
his friend. " Yes, I think it might be worse ; par example, if such 
gentry as those yonder were to have their way with us." 

He looked towards three youths who were stalking up the walk 
before us with the air of being deeply intent on some business of 
dire import. They looked like walking caricatures — and, in truth, 
they were nothing else. 

They were republicans. Similar figures are constantly seen 
strutting upon the Boulevards, or sauntering, like those before us, 
in the Tuileries, or hovering in sinister groups about the Bois de 
Boulogne, each one believing himself to bear the brow of a Bru- 
tus and the heart of a Cato, But see them where or when you 
will, they take good care to be unmistakeable ; there is not a child 
of ten years old in Paris who cannot tell a republican when he 
sees him. In several print-shops I have seen a key to their mys- 
tical toilet, which may enable the ignorant to read them right. A 
hat, whose crown, if raised for a few inches more, would be coni- 
cal, is highest in importance as in place ; and the shade of Crom 
well may perhaps glory in seeing how many desperate wrong- 
heads still mimic his beaver. Then come ijie long and matted 
locks, that hang in heavy, ominous dirtiness beneath it. The 
throat is bare, at least from linen ; but a plentiful and very dis- 
gusting profusion of hair supplies its place. The waistcoat, like 
the hat, bears an immortal name — " Gilet h, la Robespierre" 
being its awful designation ; and the extent of its wide-spreading 
lapels is held to be a criterion of the expansive principles of the 
wearer. Au reste, a general air of grim and savage blackguard- 
ism is all that is necessary to make up the outward man of a re- 
publican of Paris in 1835. 

But, oh ! the grimaces by which I have seen the human face 
distorted by persons wearing this masquerading attire ! Some roll 
their eyes and knit their brows as if they would bully the whole 
universe ; others fix their dark glances on the ground in fearful 
meditation ; while other some there be who, while gloomily lean- 
ing against a statue or a tree, throw such terrific meaning into their 
looks as might naturally be interpreted into the language of the 
witches in Macbeth — 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 125 

" We must, we will — we must, we will 
Have much more blood, — and become worse, 
And become worse," . . . &c. &c. 

The three young men who had just passed us were exactly of 
this stamp. Our legitimate friend looked after them, and laughed 
heartily. 

" C'est h nous autres, mon cher," said de L , " to enjoy that 

sight. You and yours would have but small reason to laugh at 
such as these, if it were not the business of us and ours to take 
care that they should do you no harm. You may thank the eighty 
thousand National Guards of Paris for the pleasure of quizzing, 
with such a complacent feeling of security, these very ferocious- 
looking persons." 

" For that I thank them heartily," replied M. P — ^; " only I 
think the business would have been quite as well done if those 
who performed it had the right to do so." 

" Bah ! Have you not tried, and found you could make noth- 
ing of it ?" 

" I think not, my friend," replied the legitimatist ; " we were 
doing very well, and exerting ourselves to keep the unruly spirits 
in order, when you stepped in, and promised all the naughty boys 
in Paris a holyday if they would but make you master. They 
did make you master — they have had their holyday, and now . . . ." 

" And now . . , ." said I, " what will come next ?" 

Both the gentlemen answered me at once. 

" Riots," said the legitimatist. 

" Good order," said the doctrinaire. 

We proceeded in our walk, and having crossed the Pont Roy- 
al, kept along the Quai Voltaire, to avoid the Rue du Bac ; as we 
all agreed that, notwithstanding Madame de Stael spoke so lov- 
ingly of it at a distance, it was far from agreeable when near. 

Were it not for a sort of English horror of standing before shop- 
windows, the walking along that Quai Voltaire might occupy an 
entire morning. From the first wide-spread display of " remark- 
able people" for five sous apiece — and there are heads among 
them which even in their rude lithography would repay some 
study — from this five-sous gallery of fame to the entrance of the 
Rue de Seine, it is an almost uninterrupted show ; books, old and 
new — rich, rare, and worthless ; engravings that may be classed 
likewise, — articles d'occasion of all sorts, — but, far above all the 
rest, the most glorious museums of old carving and gilding, of 
monstrous chairs, stupendous candlesticks, grotesque timepieces, 
and ornaments without a name, that can be found in the world. 
It is here that the wealthy fancier of the massive splendour of 
Louis Quinze comes with a full purse, and it is hence that be- 
yond all hope he departs with a light one. The present royal 



126 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

family of France, it is said, profess a taste for this princely but 
ponderous style of decoration ; and royal carriages are often seen 
to stop at the door oi magasins so heterogeneous in their contents 
as to adnnit all titles excepting only that of " magasin de nouveau- 
Us,^^ but having at the first glance very greatly the air of a pawn- 
broker's shop. 

During this lounge along the Quai Voltaire, I saw, for the first 
time, some marvellously uncomely portraits, with the names of 
each inscribed below, and a running title for all, classing them en 
masse as " Les Prevenus (TAvril." If these be faithful portraits, 
the originals are to be greatly pitied ; for they seem by nature 
predestined to the evil work they have been about. Every one 
of them looks 

" Worthy to be a rebel, for to that 
The multiplying villanies of nature 
Do swarm upon him." 

It should seem that the materials for rebellion were in Shak- 
speare's days much of the same kind as they are in ours. If these 
be portraits, the originals need have no fear of the caricaturist be- 
fore their eyes — their " villanies of nature" could hardly be exag- 
gerated ; and I should think that H. B. himself would try his 
pencil upon them in vain. 

On the subject which the examination of these prevenus d'Avril 
naturally led to, our two French friends seemed to be almost en- 
tirely of the same opinion ; the legitimatist confessing that " any 
king was better than none," and the doctrinaire declaring that he 
would rather the country should have gone without the last revo- 
lution, glorious and immortal as it was, than that it should be 
exposed to another, especially such a one as MM. les Prevenus 
were about to prepare for them. 

Being arrived at le quartier Latin, we amused ourselves by 
speculating upon the propensity manifested by very young men, 
who were still subjected to restraint, for the overthrow and de- 
struction of every thing that denotes authority or threatens disci- 
pline. Thus the walls in this neighbourhood abounded with in- 
scriptions to that effect ; " A has Philippe /" — " Les Pairs sont 
des assassins /" — " Vive la Republique /" and the like. Pears of 
every size and form, with scratches signifying eyes, nose, and 
mouth, were to be seen in all directions ; which being interpreted, 
denotes the contempt of the juvenile students for the reigning 
monarch. A more troublesome evidence of this distaste for author- 
ity was displayed a few days ago by four or five hundred of these 
disorderly young men, who, assembling themselves together, fol- 
lowed with hootings and shoutings M. Royer Collard, a professor 
lately appointed by the government to the medical school, from the 
college to his home in the Rue de Provence. 



ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 127 

Upon all such occasions, this government, or any other, would 
do well to follow the hint given them by an admirable manoeuvre 
of General Lobau's, the commander-in-chief of the National 
Guard. I believe the anecdote is very generally known ; but, in 
the hope that you may not have heard it, I will indulge myself 
by telling you the story, which amused me infinitely ; and it is 
better that I should run the risk of your hearing it twice, than of 
your not hearing it at all, 

A party of les jeunes gens de Paris, v/ho were exerting them- 
selves to get up a little republican emeute, had assembled in con- 
siderable numbers in the Place Vendome. The drums beat — the 
commandant was summoned and appeared. The young malecon- 
tents closed their ranks, handled their pocket-knives and walking- 
sticks, and prepared to stand firm. The general was seen to dis- 
miss an aid-de-camp, and a few anxious moments followed, when 
something looking fearfully like a military engine appeared ad- 
vancing from the Rue de la Paix. Was it cannon ? A 

crowd of high-capped engineers surrounded it, as with military 
order and address it wheeled about and approached the spot where 
the rioters had formed their thickest phalanx. The word of com- 
mand was given, and in an instant the whole host were drenched 
to their skins with water. 

Many who saw this memorable rout, in which the laughing 
pompiers followed with their leather pipes the scampering heroes, 
declare that no military manoeuvre ever produced so rapid an evac- 
uation of troops. There is something in the tone and temper of 
this proceeding of the National Guard which appears to me stri- 
kingly indicative of the easy, quiet, contemptuous spirit in which 
these powerful guardians of the existing government contemplate 
its republican enemies. 

Having reached the Luxembourg and obtained admission to the 
gardens, we again rested ourselves, that we might look about at 
our ease upon a scene that was not only quite novel, but certainly 
very singular to those who were accustomed to the ordinary aspect 
of the place. 

In the midst of lilachs and roses an encampment of small white 
tents showed their warlike fronts. Arms, drums, and all sorts of 
military accoutrements were visible among them ; while loitering 
troops, some smoking, some reading, some sleeping, completed 
the unwonted appearance of the scene. 

It would have been impossible, I believe, in all France, to fix 
ourselves on a spot where our two French friends would have 
found so many incitements to unity of opinion and feeling as this. 
Our conversation, therefore, was not only very amicable, but ran 
some risk of being dull from the mere want of contradiction ; for 
to a hearty conscientious condemnation of the proceedings which 



128 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

led to this trial of the prcvenus d^Avril there was a unanimous 
sentence passed nem. con. throughout the whole party. 

M. de L gave us some anecdotes of one or two of the per- 
sons best known among the prisoners ; but, upon being questioned 
respecting the others, he burst out indignantly in the words of 
Corneille — 

" The rest are unworthy the hononr of being named. A crowd of men, burdened 
with debts- and vices, whom the rectitude of our laws afflicts, and who, having no longer 
any hope of escaping them, are left with but one resource — that of a general revolu- 
tion." 

" Ben trovato !" exclaimed P ; " you could not have de- 
scribed them better — ^but . . . ." 

This " but" would very probably have led to observations that 
might have put our belle harmonie out of tune, or at least have 
produced the renewal of our peaceable sparring, had not a little 
bustle among the trees at a short distance behind us cut short our 
session. 

It seems that ever since the trials began, the chief duty of the 
gendarmes — (I beg pardon, I should say, of la Garde de Paris) — 
has been to prevent any assembling together of the people in knots 
for conversation and gossipings in the courts and gardens of the 
Luxembourg. No sooner are two or three persons observed 
standing together, than a policeman approaches, and with a tone 
of command pronounces, " Circulez, messieurs ! — circulez, s'il 
vous plait."* The reason for this precaution is, that nightly at 
the Porte St. Martin a few score oijeunes gens assemble to make 
a very idle and unmeaning noise, the echo of which regularly 
runs from street to street, till the reiterated report amounts to the 
announcement of an emeute. We are all now so used to these 
harmless little Smeutes at the Porte St. Martin, that we mind them 
no more than General Lobau himself : nevertheless, it is deemed 
proper, trumpery as the cause may be, to prevent any thing like 
a gathering together of the mob in the vicinity of the Luxem- 
bourg, lest the same hundred-tongued lady who constantly mag- 
nifies the hootings of a few idle mechanics into an imeute, should 
spread a report throughout France that the Luxembourg was be- 
sieged by the people. The noise which had disturbed us was oc- 
casioned by the gathering together of about a dozen persons ; but a 
policeman was in the midst of the group, and we heard rumours of 
an arrestation. In less than five minutes, however, every thing 
was quiet again : but we marked two figures so picturesque in their 
republicanism, that we resumed our seats while a sketch was 
made from them, and amused ourselves the while in fancying 
what the ominous words could be that were so cautiously ex- 

» Move on, gentlemen ; have the goodneSB to move en. 




f 128. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 129 

changed between them. M. de L said that there could be 

no doubt that they ran thus : 

" Ce soir, a la Porte St. Martin !" 

Answer. — " J'y serai."* 



LETTER XXV. 

Chapelle Expiatoire — Devotees seen there — Tri-coloured flag out of place there — Flower 
Market of the Madeleine — Petites Maitresses. ^ 

Of all the edifices finished in Paris since my last visit, there is 
not one which altogether pleases me better than the little " Cha- 
pelle Expiatoire" erected in memory of Louis the Sixteenth, and 
his beautiful but ill-starred queen. 

This monument was planned and in part executed by Louis 
the Eighteenth, and finished by Charles the Tenth. It stands 
upon the spot where many butchered victims of the tyrant mob 
were thrown in 1793. The story of the royal bodies having been 
destroyed by quicklime, is said to have been fabricated and circu- 
lated for the purpose of preventing any search after them, which 
might, it was thought, have produced a dangerous reaction of 
feeling among the whim-governed populace. 

These bodies, and several others, which were placed in coffins, 
and inscribed with the names of the murdered occupants, lay 
buried together for many years after the revolution in a large 
chantier, or wood-yard, at no great distance from the place of 
execution. 

That this spot had been excavated for the purpose of receiving 
these sad relics, is a fact well known, and it was never lost sight 
of from the terrible period at which the ground was so employed ; 
but the unseemly vault continued undisturbed till after the restora- 
tion, when the bodies of the royal victims were sought and found. 
Their bones were then conveyed to the long-hallowed shrine of 
St. Denis ; but the spot where the mangled remains were first 
thrown was consecrated, and is now become the site of this beauti- 
ful little Chapelle Expiatoire. 

The enclosure in which this building stands is of considerable 
extent, reaching from the Rue de 1' Arcade to the Rue d'Anjou. 
This space is lined with closely-planted rows of cypress-trees on 
every side, which are protected by a massive railing, neatly paint- 

* To-night— at the Porte St. Martin. 
Answer. — I will be there. 

I 



130 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

ed. The building itself and all its accompaniments are in excel- 
lent taste ; simple, graceful, and solemn. 

The interior is a small Greek cross, each extremity of which is 
finished by a semicircle surmounted by a semidome. The space 
beneath the central dome is occupied by chairs and benches, cov- 
ered with crimson velvet, for the use of the faithful — in every sense 
— who come to attend the mass which is daily performed there. 

As long as the daughter of the murdered monarch continued to 
reside in Paris, no morning ever passed without her coming to of- 
fer up her prayers at this expiatory shrine. _ 

One of the four curved extremities is occupied by the altar ; 
that opposite to it, by the entrance; and those on either side, by 
two well-composed and impressive groups in white marble — that 
to the right of the altar representing Marie Antoinette bending be- 
side a cross supported by an angel — and that to the left, the felon- 
murdered monarch, whose wretched and most unmerited destiny 
she shared. On the pedestal of the king's statue is inscribed his 
will ; on that of the queen, her farewell letter to the Princess Eliz- 
abeth. 

Nothing can exceed the chaste delicacy of the few ornaments 
admitted into the chapel. They consist only, I think, of golden 
candlesticks, placed in niches in the white marble -walls. The 
effect of the whole is beautiful and impressive. 

I often go there; yet I can hardly understand what the charm 
can be in the little building itself, or in the quiet mass performed 
there without music, which can so attract me. It is at no great 
distance from our apartments in the Rue de Provence, and a walk 
thither just occupies the time before breakfast. I once went there 
on a Sunday morning with some of my family ; but then it was full 
— indeed, so crowded, that it was impossible to see across the 
building, or feel the beauty of its elegant simplicity. The pale 
figures of the royal dead, the foully murdered, were no longer the 
principal objects ; and though I have no doubt that all present were 
right loyal spirits, with whose feelings I am well enough disposed 
to sympathize, yet I could not read each saddened brow, and at- 
tach a romance to it, as I never fail to do during my week-day 
visits. 

There are two ladies, for example, whom I constantly see there, 
ever in the same place, and ever in the same attitude. The elder 
of these I feel perfectly sure must have passed her youth near 
Marie Antoinette, for it is at the foot of her statue that she kneels 
— or I might almost say, that she prostrates herself, for she throws 
her arms forward on a cushion that is placed before her, and suf- 
fers her aged head to fall upon them, in a manner that speaks 
more sorrow than I can describe. The young girl who always ac- 
companies and kneels beside her may, I think, be her grand-daugh- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 131 

ter. They have eaqh of them " Gentlewoman horn^'' written on 
every feature, in characters not to be mistaken. The old lady is 
very pale, and the young one looks as if she were not passing a 
youth of gayety and enjoyment. 

There is a grayheaded old man, too, who is equally constant in 
his attendance at this melancholy chapel. He might sit as a model 
for a portrait of le hon vieux temps ; but he has a stern though sad 
expression of countenance, which seems to be exactly a masculine 
modification of what is passing at the heart and in the memory of 
the old lady at the opposite side of the chapel. These are figures 
which send the thoughts back for fifty years ; and, seen in the act 
of assisting at a mass for the souls of Louis Seize and his queen, 
produce a powerful effect on the imagination. 

I have ventured to describe this melancholy spot, and what I 
have seen there, the more particularly because, easy as it is of ac- 
cess, you might go to Paris a dozen times without seeing it, as in 
fact hundreds of English travellers do. One reason for this is, 
that it is not opened to the public gaze as a show, but can only be 
entered during the hour of prayer, which is inconveniently early in 
the day. 

As this sad and sacred edifice cannot justly be considered as a 
public building, the elevation of the tri-coloured flag upon it every 
fete-day might, I think, have been spared. 

Another, and a very different novelty, is the new flower-market, 
that is now kept under the walls and columns of the majestic 
Church of La Madeleine. This beautiful collection of flowers ap- 
pears to me to produce from its situation a very singular effect : the 
relative attributes of art and nature are reversed ; for here, art 
seems sublime, vast, and enduring ; while nature is small, fragile, 
and perishing. 

It has sometimes happened to me, after looking at a work of 
art which raised my admiration to enthusiasm, that I have next 
sought some marvellous combination of mountain and valley, rock 
and river, forest and cataract, and felt as I gazed on them some- 
thing like shame at remembering how nearly I had suffered the 
work of man to produce an equal ecstasy. But here, when I 
raised my eyes from the little flimsy crowd of many-coloured blos- 
soms to the simple, solemn pomp of that long arcade, with its spot- 
less purity of teint and its enduring majesty of graceful strength, 
I felt half inclined to scorn myself and those around me for being 
so very much occupied by the roses, pinks, and mignionette spread 
out before it, 

' Laying aside, however, all philosophical reflections on its local- 
ity, this new flower-market is a delightful acquisition to the Pa- 
risian 'petite maitresse. It was a long expedition to visit the 
marche aux jieurs on the distant quay near Notre Dame ; and 

12, 



132 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

though its b«auty and its fragrance might well repay an hour or 
two stolen from the pillow, the sweet decorations it offered to the 
boudoir must have been oftener selected by the maitre d'hote! or 
the femme de chamhre than by the fair lady herself. But now, 
three times in the week we may have the pleasure of seeing nmn- 
bers of graceful females in that piquant species of dishabille, which, 
uniting an equal portion of careful coquetry and saucy indifference, 
gives to the morning attire of a pretty, elegant Frenchwoman, an 
air so indescribably attractive. 

Followed by a neat souhrette, such figures may now be often 
seen in the flower-market of the Madeleine before the brightness 
of the morning has faded either from their eyes, or the blossoms 
they so love to gaze upon. The most ordinary linen gown, made 
in the form of a wrapper — the hair en papillate — the plain straw 
bonnet drawn forward over the eyes, and the vast shawl enveloping 
the whole figure, might suffice to make many an elegante pace up 
and down the fragrant alley incognita, did not the observant eye 
remark that a veil of rich lace secured the simple bonnet under the 
chin — that the shawl was of cashmere — and that the little hand, 
when ungloved to enjoy the touch of a myrtle or an orange blos- 
som, was as white as either." 



LETTER XXVI. 

Delicacy in France and in England — Causes of the difference between them. 

There is nothing, perhaps, which marks the national variety of 
manners between the French and the English more distinctly than 
the different estimate they form of what is delicate or indelicate, 
modest or immodest, decent or indecent : nor does it appear to me 
that all the intimacy of intercourse which for the last twenty years 
has subsisted between the two nations has greatly lessened this 
difference. i 

Nevertheless, I believe that it is more superficial than many 
suppose it to be ; and that it arises rather from contingent circum- 
stances, than from any original and native difference in the capa- 
bility of refinement in the two nations. 

Among the most obvious of these varieties of manner, is the 
astounding freedom with which many things are alluded to here in 
good society, the slightest reference to which is in our country ban- 
ished from even the most homely class. It seems that the opin- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 133 

ion of Martine is by no means peculiar to herself, and that it is 
pretty generally thought that 

" Quand on se fait entendre, on parle toujours bien."* 

In other ways, too, it is impossible not to allow that there exists 
in France a very perceptible want of refinement as compared to 
England. No Englishman, I beheve, has ever returned from a 
visit to Paris without adding his testimony to this fact ; and not- 
withstanding the Gallomania so prevalent among us, all acknowl- 
edge that, however striking may be the elegance and grace of the 
higher classes, there is still a national want of that uniform deli- 
cacy so highly valued by all ranks above the lowest with us. 
Sights are seen and inconveniences endured with philosophy, 
which would go nigh to rob us of our wits in July, and lead us to 
hang ourselves in November. 

To a fact so well known, and so little agreeable in the detail of 
its examination, it would be worse than useless to draw your at- 
tention, were it not that there is something curious in tracing the 
manner in which different circumstances, seemingly unconnected, 
do in reality hang together and form a whole. 

The time certainly has been, when it was the fashion in Eng- 
land, as it is now in France, to call things, as some one coarsely ex- 
presses it, by their right names ; very grave proof of which might 
be found even in sermons — and from thence downward through 
treatises, essays, poems, romances, and plays. 

Were we indeed to form our ideas of the tone of conversation 
in England a century ago from the familiar colloquy found in the 
comedies then written and acted, we must acknowledge that we 
were at that time at a greater distance from the refinement we 
now boast, than our French neighbours are at present. 

I do not here refer to licentiousness of morals, or the coarse 
avowal of it ; but to a species of indelicacy which might per- 
haps have been quite compatible with virtue, as the absence of it 
is unhappily no security against vice. 

The remedy of this has proceeded, if I mistake not, from causes 
much more connected with the luxurious wealth of England, than 
with the severity of her virtue. You will say, perhaps, that I 
have started off to an immense distance from the point whence I 
set out ; but I think not — for both in France and England I find 
abundant reason to believe that I am right in tracing this remark- 
able difference between the two countries less to natural dispo- 
sition or character, than to the accidental facilities for improve- 
ment possessed by the one people, and not by the other. 

It would be very easy to ascertain, by reference to the various 

* People always speak well, when they speak so as to be understood. 



134 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

literary records I have named, that the improvement in English 
delicacy has been gradual, and in very just proportion to the in- 
crease of her wealth, and the fastidious keeping out of sight of 
every thing that can in any way annoy the senses. 

When we cease to hear, see, and smell things which are disa- 
greeable, it is natural that we should cease to speak of them; and 
it is, I believe, quite certain, that the English take more pains 
than any other people in the world that the senses — those con- 
ductors of sensation from the body to the soul — shall convey to 
the spirit as little disagreeable intelligence of what befalls the case 
in which it dwells, as possible. The whole continent of Europe, 
with the exception of some portion of Holland perhaps (which 
shows a brotherly ailEinity to us in many things), might be cited 
for its inferiority to England in this respect. I remember being 
much amused last year, when landing at Calais, at the answer 
made by an old traveller to a novice who was making his first 
voyage. 

" What a dreadful smell !" said the uninitiated stranger, envel- 
oping his nose in his pocket handkerchief. 

" It is the smell of the continent, sir," replied the man of expe- 
rience. And so it was. 

There are parts of this subject which it is quite impossible to 
dwell upon, and which unhappily require no pen to point them out 
to notice. These, if it were possible, I would willingly leave more 
in the dark than I find them. But there are other circumstances, 
all arising from the comparative poverty of the people, which tend 
to produce, with a most obvious dependance of thing on thing, 
that deficiency of refinement of which I am speaking. 

Let any one examine the interior construction of a Paris dvs^el- 
ling of the middle class, and compare it to a house prepared for 
occupants of the same rank in London. It so happens that every 
thing appertaining to decoration is to be had a bon marchi at 
Paris, and we therefore find every article of the ornamental kind 
almost in profusion. Mirrors, silk hangings, or-molu in all forms ; 
china vases, alabaster lamps, and timepieces, in which the on- 
ward step that never returns is marked with a grace and pretti- 
ness that conceals the solemnity of its pace, — all these are in 
abundance ; and the tenth part of what would be considered ne- 
cessary to dress up a common lodging in Paris, would set the 
London fine lady in this respect upon an enviable elevation above 
her neighbours. 

But having admired their number and elegant arrangement, pass 
on and enter the ordinary bedrooms— nay, enter the kitchens too, 
or you will not be able to judge how great the difference is be 
tween the two residences. 

In London, up to the second floor, and often to the third, wate? 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 135 

is forced, which furnishes an almost unlimited supply of that lux- 
urious article, to be obtained with no greater trouble to the ser- 
vants than would be required to draw it from a tea-urn. In one 
kitchen of every house, generally in two, and often in three, the 
same accommodation is found : and when, in opposition to this, it 
is remembered that very nearly every family in Paris receives this 
precious gift of nature doled out by two buckets at a time, labo- 
riously brought to them by porters, clambering in sabots, often up 
the same stairs which lead to their drawing-rooms, it can hardly 
be supposed that the use of it is as liberal and unrestrained as 
with us. 

Against this may be placed fairly enough the cheapness and 
facility of the access to the public baths. But though personal 
ablutions may thus be very satisfactorily performed by those who 
do not rigorously require that every personal comfort should be 
found at home, yet still the want of water, or any restraint upon 
the freedom with which it is used, is a vital impediment to that 
perfection of neatness, in every part of the establishment, which 
we consider as so necessary to our comfort. 

Much as I admire the Church of the Madeleine, I conceive 
that the city of Paris would have been infinitely more benefited, 
had the sums expended upon it been used for the purpose of con- 
structing pipes for the conveyance of water to' private dwellings., 
than by all the splendour received from the beauty of this impo- 
sing structure. 

But great and manifold as are the evils entailed by the scarcity 
of water in the bedrooms and kitchens of Paris, there is another 
deficiency greater still, and infinitely worse in its effects. The 
want of drains and sewers is the great defect of all the cities in 
France ; and a tremendous defect it is. That people who, from 
their first breath of life, have been obliged to accustom their 
senses and suLmit without a struggle to the sufferings this evil 
entails upon them, — that people so circumstanced should have less 
refinement in their thoughts and words than ourselves, I hold to be 
natural and inevitable. Thus, you see, I have come round like a 
preacher to his text, and have explained, as I think, very satisfac- 
torily, what I mean by saying that the indelicacy which so often 
offends us in France does not arise from any natural coarseness 
of mind, but is the unavoidable result of circumstances, which 
may, and doubtless will change, as the wealth of the country and 
its familiarity with the manners of England increase. 

This withdrawing from the perception of the senses every thing 
that can annoy them, — this lulling of the spirit by the absence of 
whatever might awaken it to a sensation of pain, — is probably the 
last point to which the ingenuity of man can reiich in its efforts ta 
ewihellish existenjcCp 



136 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

The search after pleasure and amusement certainly betokens 
less refinement than this sedulous care to avoid annoyance ; and 
it may be, that as we have gone farthest of all modern nations in 
this tender care of ourselves, so may we be the first to fall from 
our delicate elevation into that receptacle of things past and gone 
which has ingulfed old Greece and Rome. Is it thus that the 
Reform Bill, and all the other horrible bills in its train, are to be 
interpreted ? 

As to that other species of refinement which belongs altogether 
to the intellect, and which, if less obvious to a passing glance, is 
more deep and permanent in its die than any thing which relates 
to manners only, it is less easy either to think or to speak with 
confidence. France and England both have so long a list of mighty 
names that may be quoted on either side to prove their claim to 
rank high as literary contributors to refinement, that the struggle 
as to which ranks highest can only be fairly settled by both parties 
agreeing that each country has a fair right to prefer what they 
have produced themselves. But, alas ! at the present moment, 
neither can have great cause to boast. What is good is over- 
powered and stifled by what is bad. The uncontrolled press of 
both countries has thrown so much abominable trash upon litera- 
ture during the last few years, that at present it might be difficult 
to say whether general reading would be most dangerous to the 
young and the pure in England or in France. 

That the Hugo school has brought more nonsense with its mis- 
chief, is, I think, clear : but it is not impossible that this may act 
as an antidote to its own poison. It is a sort of humbug assump- 
tion of talent, which will pass out of fashion as quickly as Morri- 
son's pills. We have nothing quite so silly as this ; but much I 
fear, that, as it concerns our welfare as a nation, we have what is 
more deeply dangerous. 

! As to what is moral and what is not so, plain as at first sight 
the question seems to be, there is much that is puzzling in it. In 
looking over a volume of " Adele et Theodore" the other day, — 
a work written expressly " sur V education^'' and by an author who, 
we must presume, meant honestly, and spoke sincerely, — I found 
this passage : — 

" Je ne connais que trois romans veritablement moraux ; — Cla- 
risse, le plus beau de tons ; Grandison, et Pamela. Ma fiUe les 
lira en Anglais lorsqu'elle. aura dix-huit ans."* 
( The venerable Grandison, though by no means sans tache, I 
will let pass ; but that any mother should talk of letting her daugh- 
ter of " dix-huit ans" read the others, is a mystery difficult to com- 

* I know of but three really moral romances ; Clarissa, the best of them all, Sir 
Charles Grandison, and Pamela. My daughter shall read them in English when she is 
eighteen years old. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 137 

prehend, especially in a country where the young girls are reared, 
fostered, and sheltered from every species of harm, with the most 
incessant and sedulous watchfulness. I presume that Madame 
de Genlis conceived that, as the object and moral purpose of these 
works were good, the revolting coarseness with which some of 
their most powerful passages are written could not lead to evil. 
But this is a bold and dangerous judgment to pass when the ques- 
tion relates to the studies of a young girl. 

I think we may see symptoms of the feeling which would pro- 
duce such a judgment, in the tone of biting satire with which Mo- 
liere attacks those who wished to banish what might " faire insulte 
k la pudeur des femmes." Spoken as he makes Philaminte speak 
it, we cannot fail to laugh at the notion : yet ridicule on the same 
subject would hardly be accepted, even from Sheridan, as jesting 
matter with us. 

" But the most important office of an academy — a noble undertaking, that will be held 
in honour by the wits of all succeeding ages — is the exclusion of those equivocal sylla- 
bles which disgrace some of our finest words ; those eternal playthings of fools — those 
wearisome commonplaces of naughty jesters — those abominable sources of a host of 
equivoques, which are so often brought into play, to shock the modesty of our ladies." 

Such an academy might be a very comical institution, certainly ; 
but the duties it would have to perform would not suffer a profes- 
sor's place to become a sinecure in France. 



LETTER XXVII. 

Objections to quoting the names of private individuals— Impossibility of avoiding Politics 
— Parceque and Quoique — Soir6e Antithetique. 

It would be a pleasure to me to give you the names of many 
persons with whom 1 have become acquainted in Paris, and I 
should like to describe exactly the salons in which I met them ; 
but a whole host of proprieties forbid this. Where individuals are 
so well known to fame as to render the echoing of their names a 
matter of ordinary recurrence, I can of course feel no scruple in 
repeating the echo — one reverberation more can do no harm : but 
I will never be the first to name any one, either for praise or for 
blame, beyond the sanctuary of his or her own circle. 

I must therefore restrict myself to the giving you the best gen- 
eral idea I can of the tone and style of what I have seen and heard ; 
and if 1 avail myself of the conversations I have listened to, it shall 
be in such a manner as to avoid the shghtest approach to personal 
allusion. 



138 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

This necessary restraint, however, is not submitted to without 
regret : it must rob much of what I would wish to repeat of the 
value of authority ; and when I consider how greatly at variance 
my impressions are on many points to some which have been pub- 
licly proclaimed by others, 1 feel that I deserve some praise for 
suppressing names which would stamp my statements with a value 
that neither my unsupported assertions, nor those of any other 
traveller, can be supposed to bear. Those who best know what I 
lose by this will give me credit for it ; and I shall be sufficiently 
rewarded for my forbearance if it afford them a proof that I am 
not unworthy the flattering kindness I have received. 

We all declare ourselves sick of politics, and a woman's letters, 
at least, ought, if possible, to be free from this wearily pervading 
subject: but the describing a human being, and omitting to men- 
tion the heart and the brain, would not leave the analysis more de- 
fective, than painting the Parisians at this moment without per- 
mitting their politics to appear in the picture. 

The very air they breathe is impregnated with politics. Were 
all words expressive of party distinctions to be banished from their 
language — were the curse of Babel to fall upon them, and no man 
be able to discourse with his neighbour — still political feeling 
would find itself an organ whereby to express its workings. One 
man would wear a pointed hat, another a flat one ; one woman 
would be girt with a tri-coloured sash, and another with a white 
one. Some exquisites would be closely buttoned to the chin, 
while the lapels of others would open wide in all the expansive 
freedom of republican unrestraint. One set would be seen adorning 
Napoleon's pillar with trophies ; another, prostrate before the altar 
of the elder Bourbon's monumental chapel ; a third, marshalling 
themselves under the bloody banner of Robespierre to the tune of 
*' Dansons la Carmagnole ;" while a fourth, by far the most numer- 
ous, would be brushing their national uniforms, attending to their 
prosperous shops, and giving a nod of good-fellowship every time 
his majesty the king passes by. 

Some friends of mine entered a shop tjie other day to order some 
article of furniture. While they remained there, a royal carriage 
passed, and one of the party said — 

" It is the queen, I believe ?" 

"Yes, sir," replied the eheniste, " it is the lady that it pleases us 
to call the queen. We may certainly call her so if we like it, for 
' we made her ourselves ; and if we find it does not answer, we shall 
make another. — May I send you home this table, sir ? . . . ." 

When politics are thus lightly mixed up with all things, how 
can the subject be wholly avoided without destroying the power 
of describing any thing as we find it ? 

Such being the case, I cannot promise that all allusion to the sub- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 139 

ject shall be banished from my letters ; but it shall be made as 
little predominant as possible. Could I indeed succeed in trans- 
ferring the light tone in which these weighty matters are generally 
discussed to the account I wish to give you of them, I need not 
much fear that I should weary you. 

Whether it be essentially in the nature of the people, or only a 
transitory feature of the times, I know not ; but nothing strikes me 
so forcibly as the airy, gay indifference with which subjects are 
discussed on which hang the destinies of the world. The most 
acute — nay, often the most profound remarks are uttered in a tone 
of badinage ; and the probabilities of future events, vital to the in- 
terests of France, and indeed of Europe, are calculated with as 
idle an air, and with infinitely more sang froid, than the chances 
at a game of rouge et noir. 

Yet, behind this I suspect that there is a good deal of sturdy de- 
termination in all parties, and it will be long ere France jcan be 
considered as one whole and united people. Were the country 
divided into two, instead of into three factions, it is probable that 
the question which was to prevail would be soon brought to an 
issue ; but as it is, they stand much like the uncles and nieces in 
the Critic, each keeping the other two in check. 

Meanwhile this temporary division of strength is unquestionably 
very favourable to the present government ; in addition to which, 
they derive much security from the averseness which all feel, ex- 
cepting the naughty boys and hungry desperadoes, to the disturb- 
ance of their present tranquillity. It is evident that those who do 
not belong to the triumphant majority are disposed for the most 
part to wait a more favourable opportunity of hostilely and openly 
declaring themselves ; and it is probable that they will wait long. 
They know well, and are daily reminded of it, that all the power 
and all the strength that possession can give are vested in the ex- 
isting dynasty ; and though much deeply-rooted feeling exists that 
is inimical to it, yet so many of all parties are firmly united to pre- 
vent farther anarchy and revolution, that the throne of Louis 
Philippe perhaps rests on as solid a foundation as that of any mon- 
arch in Europe : the fear of renewed tumult acts like the keystone 
of an arch, keeping firm, sound, and in good condition, what would 
certainly fall to pieces without it. 

In addition to this wholesome fear of pulling their own dwel- 
lings about their ears, there is also another fear that aids greatly in 
producing the same result. Many of the riotous youths who so 
essentially assisted in creating the confusion which ended in un- 
crowning one king and crowning another, are, as far as I can un- 
derstand, quite as well disposed to make a row now as they were 
then : but they know that if they do, they will most incontestably 
be whipped for it ; and" therefore, though they pout a little in pri' 



140 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

vate, they are, generally speaking, very orderly in public. Every 
one not personally interested in the possible result of another up- 
roar, must rejoice at this improvement in discipline. The boys of 
France must now submit to give way before her men ; and, as 
long as this lasts, something like peace and prosperity may be 
hoped for. 

Yet it cannot be denied, I think, that among these prudent men 
— these doctrinaires who now hold the high places, there are 
many who, " with high thoughts, such as Lycurgus loved," still 
dream of a commonwealth ; or that there are others who have not 
yet weaned their waking thoughts from meditations on faith, right, 
and loyalty. But, nevertheless, all unite in thinking that they had 
better " let things be" than risk making them worse. 

Nothing is more common than to hear a conversation end by a 
cordial and unanimous avowal of this prudent and sagacious sen- 
timent, which began by an examination of general principles, and 
the frank acknowledgment of opinions which would certainly lead 
to a very different conclusion. 

It is amusing enough to remark how these advocates for expe- 
diency contrive, each of them, to find reasons why things had bet- 
ter remain as they are, while all these reasons are strongly teinted 
by their various opinions. ' 

\- *' Charles Dix," says a legitimate in principle, but a juste-milieu 
man in practice, — " Charles Dix has abdicated the throne, which 
otherwise must unquestionably be his by indefeisible right. His 
heir-apparent has followed the example. The country was in no 
state to be governed by a child ; and what, then, was left for us, but 
to take a king from the same race which for so many ages has pos- 
sessed the throne of France. Louis Philippe est roi, parcequ'z'Z 
est Bourbon.'^* 

^ " Pardonnez-moi," replies another, who, if he could manage it 
without disturbing the tranquillity about him, would take care to 
have it understood that nothing more legitimate than an elective 
monarchy could be ever permitted in France, — " Pardonnez-moi, 
mon ami ; Louis Philippe est roi, quoiqu'i/ est Bourbon "f 

These two parties of the Parceques and the Quoiques, in fact, 
form the great bulwarks of King Philippe's throne; for they both 
consist of experienced, practical, substantial citizens, who, having 
felt the horrors of anarchy, willingly keep their particular opin- 
ions in abeyance rather than hazard a recurrence of it. They, in 
truth, form between them the genuine juste-milieu on which the 
present government is balanced. 

That there is more of the practical wisdom of expediency than 
of the dignity of unbending principle in this party, can hardly be 

. * Louis Philippe is king, because he is a Bourbon, 
f Louis Philippe is king, although he is a Bouibon. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 141 

denied. They are " wiser in their generation than the children of 
light ;" but it is difficult, " seeing what we have seen, seeing what 
we see," to express any heavy sentence of reprobation upon a 
line of conduct which ensures, for the time at least, the lives and 
prosperity of millions. They tell me that my friend the vicomte 
has sapped my legitimate principles ; but I deny the charge, 
though I cannot deliberately wish that confusion should take the 
place of order, or that the desolation of a civil war should come 
to deface the aspect of prosperity that it is so delightful to con- 
template. 

This discrepance between what is right and what is convenient 
— this wavering of principle and of action, is the inevitable con- 
sequence of repeated political convulsions. When the times be- 
come out of joint, the human mind can with difficulty remain firm 
and steadfast. The inconceivable variety of wild and ever-chan- 
ging speculations which have long overborne the voice of estab- 
lished belief and received authority in this country, has brought 
the principles of the people into a state greatly resembling that of 
a wheel radiated with every colour of the rainbow, but which, by 
rapid movement, is left apparently without any colour at all. 

Our last soirSe was at the house of a lady who takes much in- 
terest in showing me " le Paris d'aujourd'hui," as she calls it. 
" Chere dame !" she exclaimed, as I entered, " I have collected 
une societe delicieuse for you this evening." 

She had met me in the anteroom, and, taking my arm within 
hers, led me into the salon. It was already filled with company, 
the majority of which were gentlemen. Having found room for 
us on a sofa, and seated herself next to me, she said — 

" I will present whomsoever you choose to know ; but, before I 
bring anybody up, I must explain who they all are." 

I expressed my gratitude, and she began : — " That tall gentle- 
man is a great republican, and one of the most respectable that we 
have left of the clique. The party is very nearly worn out among 
the gens comme il faut. His father, however, is of the same 
party, and still more violent, I believe, than himself. Heaven 
knows what they would be at ! . . . But they are both deputies, 
and if they died to-morrow, would have, either father or son, a 
very considerable mob to follow them to Pere Lachaise ; not to 
mention the absolute necessity which I am sure there would be 
to have troops out : c'est toujours quelque chose, n'est-ce pas ? I 
know that you hate them all — and, to say truth, so do I too ; — 
mais, chere amie ! qu'est-ce que cela fait ? I thought you would 
like to see them : they really begin to get very scarce in salons." 

I assured her that she was quite right, and' that nothing in the 
whole Jardin des Plantes could amuse me better. 

" Ah ^a !" she rejoined, laughing ; " voil^ ce que c'est d'etre 



14S PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

raisonnable. Mais regardez ce beau garcjon leaning against the 
chimneypiece. He is one of les Jideles sans tache. Is he not 
handsome ? I have him at all my parties ; and even the nainisters' 
ladies declare that he is perfectly charming." 

"And that little odd-looking nnan in black," said I, "who is 
he ? . . . What a contrast !" 

" N'est-ce pas ? Do they not group v\^ell together ? That is 
just the sort of thing I like — it amuses everybody : besides, I 

assure you, he is a very remarkable person, — in short, it is M , 

the celebrated atheist. He writes for the . But the Institute 

won't have him : however, he is excessively talked of — and that 
is every thing. . . . Then I have two peers, both of them highly- 
distinguished. There is M. de , who, you know, is King 

Philippe's right hand ; and the gentleman sitting down just behind 

him is the dear old Due de , who lived ages in exile with Louis 

Dix-huit . . . That person almost at your elbow, talking to the lady 

in blue, is the Comte de P , a most exemplary Catholic, who 

always followed Charles Dix in all religious processions. He 
was half distracted, poor man ! at the last revolution ; but they 
say he is going to dine with King Philippe next week : I long to 
ask him if it is true, but I am afraid, for fear he should be obliged 
to answer ' Yes ;' — that would be so embarrassing ! . . Oh, by-the- 
way, that is a peer that you are looking at now ; — he has refused 
to sit on the trial .... Now, have I not done Vimpossihle for you ?" 

I thanked her gratefully, and as I knew I could not please her 
better than by showing the interest I took in her menagerie, I 
inquired the name of a lady who was talking with a good deal of 
vehemence at the opposite side of the room. 

" Oh ! that's a person that I always call my * dame de V Empire.'' 
Her husband was one of Napoleon's creations ; and Josephine 
used to amuse herself without ceasing by making her talk — her 
language and accent are impayahles /" 

" And that pretty woman in the corner ?" 

" Ah ! . . . she is charming ! ... It is Madame V — — , daughter 

of the celebrated Vicomte de , so devoted, you know, to the 

royal cause. But she is lately married to one of the present 
ministers — quite a love-match ; which is an innovation, by-the- 
way, more hard to pardon in France than the introduction of a new 
dynasty. Mais c'est egal — -they are all very good friends again 
. . . Now tell me whom I shall introduce to you ?" 

I selected the heroine of the love-match ; who was not only one 
of the prettiest creatures I ever saw, but so lively, intelligent, and 
agreeable, that I have seldom passed a pleasanter hour than that 
which followed the introduction. The whole of this heterogene- 
ous party seemed to mix together with the greatest harmony; the 
only cold glance I saw given being from the gentlenaan designated 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 143 

as " King Philippe's right hand," towards the tall republican 
deputy of whose funeral my friend had predicted such honours. 
The dame de VEmpire was indulging in a lively flirtation with 
one of the peers sans tache ; and 1 saw the fingers of the exem- 
plary Catholic, who was going to dine with King Phihppe, in the 
tahatiere of the celebrated atheist. I then remembered that this 
was one of the soirees antithetiques so much in fashion. 



LETTER XXVIII. 

New Publications — M. de Lamartine's " Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensdes, et Paysages" 
— TocqueviUe and Beaumont — New American regulation — M. Scribe — Madame Tastu 
— Reception of different Writers in society. 

Though among the new publications sent to me for perusal I 
have found much to fatigue and disgust me, as must indeed be 
inevitable for any one accustomed for some scores of years to 
nourish the heart and head with the literature of the " bon vieux 
temps,'^ — which means, in modern phrase, every thing musty, 
rusty, rococo, and forgotten, — I have yet found some volumes 
which have delighted me greatly. 

M. de Lamartine's " Souvenirs, Impressions, Pensees, et Pay- 
sages" in the East, is a work which appears to me to stand soli- 
tary and alone in the world of letters. There is certainly nothing 
like it, and very little that can equal it, in my estimation, either as 
a collection of written landscapes, or as a memorial of poetical 
feeling, just sentiment, and refined taste. 

His descriptions may, perhaps, have been, in some rare in- 
stances, equalled in mere graphic power by others ; but who has 
painted any thing which can excite an interest so profound, or an 
elevation of the fancy so lofty and so delightful ? 

Alas ! that the scenes he paints should be so utterly beyond 
one's reach ! How little, how paltry, how full of the vulgar inter- 
ests of this " working-day world," do all the other countries of 
the earth appear after reading this book, when compared to Judea ! 
But there are few who could visit it as Lamartine has done, — there 
are very few capable of feeling as he felt — and none, I think, of 
describing as he describes. His words live and glow upon the 
paper ; he pours forth sunshine and orient light upon us, — we hear 
the gale whispering among the palm-trees, see Jordan's rapid 
stream rushing between its flowery banks, and feel that the scene 
to which he has transported us is holy ground. 

The exalted tone of his religious feelings, and the poetic fer- 



144 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

vour with which he expresses them, might almost lead one to be- 
lieve thai he was inspired by the sacred air he breathed. It seems 
as if he had found the harps which were hung up of old upon th-^ 
trees, and tuned them anew to sing of the land of David ; he has 
" beheld the beauty of the Lord, and inquired in his temple," and 
the result is exactly what it should be. 

The manner in which this most poetic of travellers, while stand- 
ing on the ruins of Tyre, speaks of the desolation and despair that 
appear settling upon the earth in these latter days, is impressive 
beyond any thing I know of modern date. 

Had France produced no other redeeming volumes than these, 
there is enough within them to overpower and extinguish the na- 
tional hterary disgrace with which it has been reproached so 
loudly ; and it is a comfort to remember that this work is as sure 
to live as the literary labours of the diabolic school are to perish. 
It is perhaps good for us to read trash occasionally, that we may 
learn to value at their worth such thoughts as we find here ; and 
w^hile there are any left on earth who can so think, so feel, and so 
write, our case is not utterly hopeless. 

Great, indeed, is the debt that we owe to an author like this, 
who, seizing upon the imagination with power unlimited, leads it 
only into scenes that purify and exalt the spirit. It is a tremen- 
dous power, that of taking us how and where he will, which is pos- 
sessed by such an author as this. When it is used for evil, it 
resembles fearfully the action of a fiend, tempting, dragging, beck- 
oning, cajoling to destruction : but when it is for good, it is like 
an angel's hand leading us to heaven. 

I intended to speak to you of many other works which have 
pleased me ; but I really at this moment experience the strangest 
sort of embarrassment imaginable in referring to them. Many 
agreeable new books are lying about before me ; but, while my 
head is so full of Lamartine and the Holy Land, every thing seems 
to produce on me the effect of platitude and littleness. 

I must, however, conquer this so far as to tell you that you 
ought to read both Tocqueville and Beaumont on the United 
States. By-the-way, I am assured that the Americans declare 
themselves determined to change their line of conduct altogether 
respecting the national manner of receiving European sketches of 
themselves. This new law is to embrace three clauses. The 
first will enforce the total exclusion, from henceforth and for ever- 
more, of all European strangers from their American homes ; the 
second will recommend that all citizens shall abstain from reading 
any thing, in any language written,- or about to be written, con- 
cerning them and their affairs ; and the third, in case the other 
two should fail, seems to take the form of a vow, protesting that 
they never will storm, rave, scold, or care about any thing that 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 145 

anybody can say of them more. If this passes during the presi- 
dentship of General Jackson, it will immortahze his reign more 
than paying off the national debt. 

Having thus, somehow or other, slipped from the Holy Land to 
the United States of America, I feel sufficiently subdued in spirit 
to speak of lesser things than Lamartine's " Pilgrimage." 

On one point, indeed, a sense of justice urges me, when on the 
subject of modern productions, to warn you against the error of 
supposing that all the new theatrical pieces, which come forth 
here as rapidly and as brilliantly as the blossoms of the gum 
cistus, and which fade almost as soon, are of the nature and ten- 
dency of those I have mentioned as belonging to the Victor Hugo 
school. On the contrary, I have seen many, and read more, of 
these little comedies and vaudevilles, which are not only free 
from every imputation of mischief, but absolutely perfect in their 
kind. 

The person whose name is celebrated far above all others for 
this species of composition, is M. Scribe ; and were it not that 
his extraordinary facility enables him to pour forth these pretty 
trifles in such abundance as already to have assured him a very 
large fortune, which offers an excellent excuse in these positrf 
times for him, I should say that he would have done better had 
he written less. 

He has shown on several occasions, as in " L'Ambitieux," 
" Bertrand et Raton," &C.5 that he can succeed in that most diffi- 
cult of tasks, good legitimate comedy, as well as in the lighter 
labour of striking off a 'sparkling vaudeville. It is certain, indeed, 
that, spite of all we say, and say in some respects so justly, re- 
specting the corrupted taste of France at the present era, there 
never was a time when her stage could boast a greater affluence 
of delightful little pieces than at present. 

I really am afraid to enter more at large upon this theme, from 
a literal embarras de ricliesses. If I begin to name these pretty, 
lively trifles, I shall run into a list much too long for your pa- 
tience : for though Scribe is still the favourite as well as the most 
fertile source of these delightful novelties, there are one or two 
others who follow him at some little distance, and who among 
them produce such a sum total of new pieces in the year as 
would make an English manager tremble to think of ; — but here 
the chief cost of bringing them out is drawn, not from the theat- 
rical treasury, but from the ever-fresh wit and spirit of the per- 
formers. 

Such an author as Scribe is a national museum of invention — a 
never-failing source of new enjoyment to his lively countrymen, 
and he has probably tasted the pleasures of a bright and lasting 
reputation as fully as any author living. We are already indebted 



146 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

to him for many charming importations ; and, thanks to the Yates 
talent, we begin to be not unworthy of receiving such. If we 
cannot have Shakspeare, Racine, and MoH^re got up for us quite 
" in the grand style of former years," these bright, light, biting, 
playful, graceful little pieces are by far the best substitutes for 
them, while we wait with all the patience we can for a new growth 
of players, who shall give honour due to the next tragedy Miss 
Mitford may bestow upon us. 

Another proof that it is not necessary to be vicious in order to 
be in vogue at Paris, and that purity is no impediment to success, 
is the popularity of Madame Tastu's poetry. She writes as a 
woman ought to write — with grace, feeling, delicacy, and piety. 

Her literary efforts, however, are not confined to the " flowery 
path of poesy ;" though it is impossible not to perceive that she 
lingers in it with delight, and that Virhen she leaves it, she does so 
from no truant inclination to wander elsewhere, but from some 
better impulse. Her work entitled " Education Maternelle" would 
prove a most valuable acquisition to English mothers desirous 
themselves of giving early lessons in French to their children. 
The pronunciation and accentuation are marked in a manner greatly 
to facilitate the task, especially to a foreigner ; v/hose greatest diffi- 
culty, when attempting to teach the language without the aid of a 
native master, is exactly what these initiatory lessons are so well 
calculated to obviate. 

It is no small source of consolation and of hope, at a period 
when a sort of universal epidemic phrensy appears to have seized 
upon the minds of men, leading them to advocate as good that 
which all experience shows to be evil, and to give specimens of 
dirty delirium that might be collected in an hospital, by way of 
exalted works of imagination, — it is full of hope and consolation 
to find that, however rumour may clamour forth tidings of these 
sad ravings whenever they appear, fame still rests only with such 
as really deserve it. 

Let a first-rate collector of literary lions at Paris make it known 
that M. de Lamartine would appear at her soiree, and the per- 
mission to enter there would be sought so eagerly, that before 
eleven o'clock there would not be standing-room in her apart- 
ments, though they might be as spacious as any the " belle ville" 
can show. But let it be announced that the authors of any of the 
obscene masks and mummings which have disgraced the theatres 
of France would present themselves, and depend upon it they 
would find space sufficient to enact the part of Triboulet at the 
moment when he exclaims in soliloquy, 

" Que je suis grand ici !"* 
* What an important persoiiage I find myself, just here ! 







/'. 1/ 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 147 



LETTER XXIX. 

Sunday in Paris — Family Groups — Popular Enjoyment — Polytechnic Students — Their 
resemblance to the figure of Napoleon — Enduring attachment to the Emperor — Con- 
servative spirit of the English Schools — Sunday in the Gardens of the Tuileries — 
Religion of the Educated — Popular Opinion. 

Sunday is a delightful day in Paris — moie so than in any place 
I ever visited, excepting Frankfort. The enjoyment is so univer- 
sal, and yet so domestic ; were I to form my idea of the national 
character from the scenes passing before my eyes on that day, 
instead of from books and newspapers, I should say that the most 
remarkable features in it were conjugal and parental affection. 

It is rare to see either a man or a woman, of an age to be 
wedded and parents, without their being accompanied by their 
partner and their offspring. The cup of light wine is drunk 
between them; the scene that is sought for amusement by the one 
is also enjoyed by the other ; and whether it be little or whether 
it be much that can be expended on this day of jubilee, the man 
and wife share it equally. 

I have entered many churches during the hours of the morning 
masses, in many different parts of the town, and, as I have before 
stated, I have uniformly found them extremely crowded ; and 
though I have never remarked any instances of that sort of peni- 
tential devotion so constantly seen in the churches of Belgium, 
when the painfully extended arms remind one of the Hindoo 
solemnities, the appearance of earnest and devout attention to 
what is going on is universal. 

It is not till after the grand mass is over that the population 
pours itself out over every part of the town, not so much to seek 
as to meet amusement. And they are sure to find it ; for not ten 
steps can be taken in any direction without encountering some- 
thing that shall furnish food for enjoyment of some kind or other. 

There is no sight in the world that I love better than a numerous 
populace during their hours of idleness and glee. When they 
assemble themselves together for purposes of legislation, I confess 
I do not greatly love or admire them ; but when they are enjoying 
themselves, particularly when women and children share in the 
enjoyment, they furnish a delightful spectacle — and nowhere can 
it be seen to greater advantage than in Paris. The nature of the 
people — the nature of the climate — the very form and arrangement 
of the city, are all especially favourable to the display of it. It 
is in the open air, under the blue vault of heaven, before the eyes 

K2 



148 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

of thousands, that they love to bask and disport themselves. The 
bright, clear atmosphere seems made on purpose for them ; and 
whoever laid out the boulevards, the quays, the gardens of Paris, 
surely remembered, as they did so, how necessary space was for 
the assembling together of her social citizens. 

The young men of the Polytechnic School make a prominent 
feature in a Paris Sunday ; for it is only on the jours de fete that 
they are permitted to range at liberty through the town : but all 
occasions of this kind cause the streets and public walks to swarm 
with young Napoleons, 

It is quite extraordinary to see how the result of a strong 
principle or sentiment may show itself externally on a large body 
of individuals, making those alike whom nature has made as dis- 
similar as possible. There is not one of these Polytechnic lads, 
the eldest of whom could hardly have seen the light of day before 
Napoleon had left the soil of France for ever, — there is hardly one 
of them who does not more or less remind one of the well-known 
figure and air of the emperor. Be they tall, be they short, be they 
fat, be they thin, it is the same, — there is some approach (evidently 
the result of having studied their worshipped model closely in 
paintings, engravings, bronzes, marbles, and Sevres china) to that 
look and bearing which, till the most popular tyrant that ever lived 
had made it as well known as sunshine to the eyes of France, was 
as little resembling to the ordinary appearance and carriage of her 
citizens as possible. 

The tailor can certainly do much towards making the exterior 
of one individual look like the exterior of another ; but he cannot 
do all that we see in the mien of a Polytechnic scholar that serves 
to recall the extraordinary man whose name, after years of exile 
and of death,* is decidedly the most stirring that can be pronounced 
in France. Busy, important, and most full of human interest has 
been the period since his downfall ; yet his memory is as fresh 
among them as if he had marched into the Tuileries triumphant 
from one of his hundred victories but yesterday. 

O, if the sovereign people could but understand as well as read ? 
.... And that some Christian spirit could be found who would 
interpret to them, in such accents as they would listen to, the life 
and adventures of Napoleon the Great ! What a deal of wisdom 
they might gain by it ! Where could be found a lesson so stri- 
king as this to a people who are weary of being governed, and de- 
sire, one and all, to govern themselves ? With precisely the same 
weariness, with precisely the same desire, did this active> intelli- 
gent, and powerful people throw off, some forty years ago, the 
yoke of their laws and the authority of their king. Then were 
ihey free as the sand of the desert — not one individual atom of 
the mighty mass but might have risen, in the hurricane of that 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 149 

tempest, as high as the unbridled wind of his ambition could carry 
him ; and what followed ? Why, they grew sick to death of the 
giddy whirl, where each man knocked aside his neighbour, and 
there was none to say "Forbear!" Then did they cling, like 
sinking souls in the act of drowning, to the first bold man who 
dared to replace the yoke upon their necks ; they clung to him 
through years of war, that mowed down their ranks as a scythe 
mows down the ripe corn, and yet they murmured not. For years 
they suffered their young sons to be torn from their sides, while 
they still hung to them with all the first fondness of youth, and 
yet they murmured not ; — for years they lived uncheered by the 
wealth that commerce brings, uncheered by any richer return of 
labour than the scanty morsel that sustained their hfe of toil, and 
yet they murmured not: for they had once more a prince upon 
the throne — they had once more laws, firmly administered, which 
kept them from the dreaded horrors of anarchy ; and they clung 
to their tyrant prince, and his strict and stern enactments, with a 
devotion of gratitude and affection, which speaks plainly enough 
their lasting thankfulness to the courage which was put forth in 
their hour of need to relieve them from the dreadful burden of 
self-government. 

This gratitude and affection endure still — nothing will ever 
efface them ; for his military tyranny is passed away, and the ben- 
efits which his colossal power enabled him to bestow upon them 
remain, and must remain as long as France endures. The only 
means by which another sovereign may rival Napoleon in popu- 
larity, is by rivalling him in power. Were some of the feverish 
blood which still keeps France in agitation to be drawn from her 
cities to re-enforce her military array, and were a hundred thou- 
sand of the sons of France marched off to restore to Italy her nat- 
ural position in Europe, power, glory, and popularity would sus- 
tain the throne, and tranquillity be restored to the people. With- 
out some such discipline, poor young France may very probably 
die of a plethora. If she has not this, she must have a government 
as absolute as that of Russia to keep her from mischief: and that 
she will have one or the other before long, I have not the least 
doubt in the world ; for there are many very clever personages at 
and near the seat of power who will not be slow to see or to do 
what is needful. 

Meanwhile this fine body of young men are, as I understand, 
receiving an education calculated to make them most efficient offi- 
cers, whenever they are called upon to serve. Unfortunately for 
the reputation of the Polytechnic School, their names were brought 
more forward than was creditable to those who had the charge of 
them during the riots of 1830, But the government which the 
men of France accepted from the hands of the boys really appears 



150 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

to be wiser and better than they had any right to expect from 
authority so strangely constituted. The new government very 
properly uses the strength given it, for the purpose of preventing 
the repetition of the excesses to which it owes its origin ; and 
these fine lads are now said to be in a state of very respectable 
discipline, and to furnish no contemptible bulwark to the throne. 

It is otherwise, however, as I hear, with most of the bodies of 
young men collected together in Paris for the purpose of educa- 
tion. The silly cant of republicanism has got among them ; and 
till this is mended, continued little riotous outbreakings of a 
naughty-boy spirit must be expected. 

One of the happiest circumstances in the situation of poor strug- 
gling England at present is, that her boys are not republican. On 
the contrary, the rising spirit among us is decidedly conservative. 
All our great schools are tory to the heart's core. The young 
English have been roused, awakened, startled at the peril which 
threatens the land of their fathers ! The penny king who has in- 
vaded us has produced on them the effect usual on all invasions; 
and rather than see him and his popish court succeed in conquer-, 
ing England, they would rush from their forms and their cloisters 
to repel him, shouting, " Alone we'll do it, boys !" — and they would 
do it, too, even if they had no fathers to help them. 

But I have forgotten my Sunday holyday, while talking about 
the gayest and happiest of those it brings forth to decorate the 
town. Many a proud and happy mother may, on these occasions, 
be seen leaning on the arm of a son who, she is very conscious, 
looks like an emperor ; and many a pretty creature, whom her 
familiarity, as well as her features, proclaims to be a sister, shows 
in her laughing eyes that the day which gives her smart young 
brother freedom is indeed ajowr defete for her. 

You will be weary of the Tuileries Gardens ; but I cannot keep 
out of them, particularly when talking of a Paris Sunday, of 
whose prettiest groups they are the rendezvous : the whole day's 
history may be read in them. As soon as the gates are open, 
figures both male and female, in dishabille more convenient than 
elegant, may be seen walking across them in every direction to- 
wards the sortie which leads towards the quay, and thence onward 
to Les Bains Vigier. Next come the after-breakfast groups : and 
these are beautiful. Elegant young mothers in half-toilet accom- 
pany their bonnes, and the pretty creatures committed to their 
care, to watch for an hour the happy gambols which the presence 
of the " chfere maman" renders seven times more gay than ordi- 
nary. 

I have watched such repeatedly, with extreme amusement ; 
often attempting to read, but never able to pursue the occupation 
for three quarters of a minute together, till they at last abandon it 



PARIS AND THK PARISIANS. 151 

altogether, and sit with the useless volume upon their knee, com- 
placently answering all the baby questions that may be proposed 
to them, while watching, with the smiling satisfaction of well- 
pleased maternity, every attitude, every movement, and every 
grimace of the darling miniatures in which they see themselves, 
and perhaps one dearer still. 

From about ten till one o'clock the gardens swarm with children 
and their attendants ; and pretty enough they are, and amusing too, 
with their fanciful dresses and their baby wilfulness. Then comes 
the hour of early dinners ; the nurses and the children retreat ; 
and were it possible that any hour of the day could find a public 
walk in Paris unoccupied, it would be this. 

The next change shows the gradual influx of best bonnets, — 
pink, white, green, blue. Feathers float onward, and fresh flow- 
ers are seen around ; gay barouches rush down the Rues Cas- 
tiglione and Rivoli ; cabs swing round every corner, all to deposits 
their gay freight within the gardens. By degrees double, treble 
rows of chairs are occupied on either side of every walk, while 
the whole space between is one vast moving mass of pleasant 
idleness. 

This lasts till five ; and then, as the elegant crowd withdraws, 
another, less graceful perhaps, but more animated, takes its place. 
Caps succeed to bonnets ; and unchecked laughter, loud with 
youth and glee, replaces the whispered gallantry, the silent smile, 
and all the well-bred ways of giving and receiving thoughts with 
as little disturbance to the circumambient air as possible. 

From this hour to nightfall the multitude goes on increasing ; 
and did one not know that every theatre, every guinguette, every 
boulevard, every cafe in Paris was at the same time crammed al- 
most to suffocation, one might be tempted to believe that the 
whole population had assembled there to recreate themselves be^ 
fore the windows of the king. 

Among the higher ranks the Sunday evening at Paris is pre- 
cisely the same as that of any other day. There are the same 
number of soirees going on, and no more ; the same number of 
dinner-parties, — just as much card-playing, just as much dancing, 
just as much music, and just as much going to the opera ; but the 
other theatres are generally left to the endimanches . 

You must not, however, imagine that no religious exercises are 
attended to among the rich and noble, because I have said nothing 
especially about them on this point. On the contrary, I have 
great reason to believe that it is not alone the attractive eloquence 
of the popular preachers which draws such multitudes of wealthy 
and high-born females into the fashionable churches of Paris ; but 
that they go to pray as well as to listen. Nevertheless, as to the 
general state of religion among the educated classes in Paris, it 



152 PARIS. AND THE PARISIANS. 

is quite as difficult to obtain information as it is to learn, with any- 
thing like tolerable accuracy, the average state of their politics. 
It is not that there is the least reserve or apparent hanging back 
when either subject is discussed ; on the contrary, all seem kindly- 
eager to answer every question, and impart to you all the inform- 
ation it is possible to wish for : but the variety of statements is 
inconceivable ; and as I have repeatedly listened to very strong 
and positive assertions respecting the opinions of the majority, 
from those in whose sincerity I have perfect confidence, but which 
have been flatly contradicted by others equally deserving of credit, 
I am led to suppose that, in effect, the public mind is still waver- 
ing on both subjects. There is, in fact, but one point upon which 
I truly and entirely believe that an overwhelming majority exists, 
— and this is in the aversion felt for any farther trial of a republi- 
/ can form of government. 

The party who advocate the cause of democracy do indeed 
make the most noise — it is ever their wont to do so. Neither the 
Chamber of Deputies nor the Chamber of Peers can assemble 
nightly at a given spot to scream " Vive le Roi !" nor are the quiet 
citizens, who most earnestly Avish to support the existing govern- 
ment, at all more likely to leave their busy shops for this purpose 
than the members of the two Chambers are to quit their hotels ; — 
so that any attempt to judge the political feelings of the people 
by the outcries heard in the streets must of necessity lead to error. 
Yet it is of such judgments, both at home and abroad, that we 
hear the most. 

As to the real private feelings on the subject of religion which 
exist among the educated portion of the people, it is still more dif- 
ficult to form an opinion, for on this subject the strongest indica- 
tions are often declared to prove nothing. If churches filled to 
overflowing be proof of national piety, then are the people pious : 
and farther than this no looker-on, such as myself, should, I think, 
attempt to go. 



LETTER XXX. 

Madame Recamier — Her Morning Parties — Gerard's Picture of Corinne — Miniature of 
Madame de Stael — M. de Chateaubriand — Conversation on the degree in which the 
French language is understood by Foreigners — The necessity of speaking French. 

Of all the ladies with whom I have become acquainted in Paris, 
the one who appears to me to be the most perfect specimen of an 
elegant Frenchwoman is Madame Recamier — the same Madame 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 153 

Recamier whom, I will not say how many years ago, I remember 
to have seen in London, the admired of all eyes : and, wonderful 
to say, she is so still. Formerly I knew her only from seeing her 
in public, where she was pointed out to me as the most beautiful 
woman in Europe ; but now that I have the pleasure of her ac- 
quaintance, I can well understand, though you, who know her only 
by the reputation of her early beauty may not, how and why it is 
that fascinations generally so evanescent are with her so lasting. 
She is, in truth, the very model of all grace. In person, manner, 
movement, dress, voice, and language, she seems universally al- 
lowed to be quite perfect ; and I really cannot imagine a better 
mode of giving a last finish to a young lady's study of the graces, 
than by affording her an opportunity of observing every movement 
and gesture of Madame Recamier. 

She is certainly a monopolist of talents and attractions which 
would suffice, if divided in ordinary proportions, to furnish forth 
a host of charming women. I never met with a Frenchman who 
did not allow, that though his countrywomen were charming from 
agremens which seem peculiarly their own, they have fewer fault 
less beauties among them than may be found in England ; but yet, 
as they say, " Quand une Franqaise se mele d'etre jolie, elle est 
furieusement jolie." This 7not is as true in point of fact as piquant 
in expression ; — a beautiful Frenchwoman is, perhaps, the most 
beautiful woman in the world. 

The perfect loveliness of Madame Recamier has made her "a 
thing to wonder at :" and now that she has passed the age when 
beauty is at its height, she is perhaps to be wondered at still more ; 
for I really doubt if she ever excited more admiration than she 
does at present. She is followed, sought, looked at, listened to, 
and, moreover, beloved and esteemed, by a very large circle of the 
first society in Paris, among whom are numbered some of the most 
illustrious literary names in France. 

That her circle, as well as herself, is delightful, is so generally 
acknowledged, that by adding my voice to the universal judg- 
ment, I perhaps show as much vanity as gratitude for the privi- 
lege of being admitted within it : but no one, I believe, so favoured 
could, when speaking of the society of Paris, omit so striking a fea- 
ture of it as the salon of Madame Recamier. She contrives to 
make even the still-life around her partake of the charm for which 
she is herself so remarkable, and there is a fine and finished ele- 
gance in every thing about her that is irresistibly attractive : I have 
often entered drawing-rooms almost capable of containing her 
whole suite of apartments, and found them infinitely less striking 
in their magnificence than her beautiful little salon in the Abbaye- 
aux-Bois. 

The rich draperies of white silk, the delicate blue teint that mixes 



154 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

with them throughout the apartment — the mirrors, the flowers — 
all together give an air to the room that makes it accord marvel 
lously well with its fair inhabitant. One might fancy that Mad- 
ame Recamier herself was for ever vouee au blanc, for no drapery 
falls around her that is not of snowy whiteness — and, indeed, the 
mixture of almost any colour would seem like profanation to the 
exquisite delicacy of her appearance. 

Madame Recamier admits morning visits from a limited number 
of persons, whose names are given to the servant attending in the 
anteroom, every day from four till six. It was here I had the 
pleasure of being introduced to M. de Chateaubriand, and had af- 
terward the gratification of repeatedly meeting him ; a gratification 
that I shall assuredly never forget, and for which I would have 
willingly sacrificed one half of the fine things which reward the 
trouble of a journey to Paris. 

The circle thus received is never a large one, and the conversa- 
tion is always general. The first day that I and my daughters 
were there, we found, I think, but two ladies, and about half a 
dozen gentlemen, of whom M. de Chateaubriand was one. A 
magnificent picture by Gerard, boldly and sublimely conceived, 
and executed in his very best manner, occupies one side of the ele- 
gant little salon. The subject is Corinne, in a moment of poetical 
excitement, a lyre in her hand, and a laurel crown upon her head. 
Were it not for the modern costume of those around her, the figure 
must be mistaken for that of Sappho : and never was that impas- 
sioned being, the martyred saint of youthful lovers, portrayed with 
more sublimity, more high poetic feeling, or more exquisite fem- 
inine grace. 

The contemplation of this chef-d^o^uvre naturally led the con- 
versation to Madame de Stael. Her intimacy with Madame Re- 
camier is as well known as the biting reply of the former to an 
unfortunate man, who, having contrived to place himself between 
them, exclaimed, — " Me voilk entre I'esprit et la beaute !" 

To which bright sally he received for answer — " Sans posseder 
ni I'un ni I'autre." 

My knowledge of this intimacy induced me to take advantage of 
the occasion, and I ventured to ask Madame Recamier if Madame 
de Stael had in truth intehded to draw her own character in that 
of Corinne. 

" Assuredly . . ." was the reply. " The soul of Madame de 
Stael is fully developed in her portrait of that of Corinne." Then 
turning to the picture, she added, " Those eyes are the eyes of 
Madame de Stael." 

She put a miniature into my hand, representing her friend in 
all the bloom of youth, at an age, indeed, when she could not 
laave been known to Madame Recamier, The eyes had certainly 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 155 

the same dark beauty, the same inspired expression, as those 
given to Corinne by Gerard. But the artist had too much taste 
or too httle courage to venture upon any farther resemblance ; the 
thick hps and short fat chin of the real sibyl being changed into 
all that is loveliest in female beauty on the canvass. 

The apparent age of the face represented in the miniature 
points out its date with tolerable certainty ; and it gives no very 
favourable idea of the taste of the period ; for the shock head of 
crisped Brutus curls is placed on the arms and bust as free from 
drapery, though better clothed in plumpness, than those of the 
Medicean Venus. 

As we looked first at one picture, then at the other, and con- 
versed on both, I was struck with the fine forehead and eyes, de- 
lightful voice, and peculiar graceful turn of expression, of a gentle- 
man who sat opposite to me, and who joined in this conversation. 

I remarked to Madame Recamier that few romances had ever 
had the honour of being illustrated by such a picture as this of 
Gerard, and that, from many circumstances, her pleasure in pos- 
sessing it must be very great. 

"It is indeed," she replied : "nor is it my only treasure of the 
kind — I am so fortunate as to possess Girodet's original drawing 
from Atala, the engraving from which you must often have seen. 
Let me show you the original." 

We followed her to the dining-room, where this very interesting 
drawing is placed. "You do not know M. de Chateaubriand?" 
said she. 

r replied that I had not that pleasure. 

" It is he who was sitting opposite to you in the salon^ 

I begged that she would introduce him to me; and upon our 
returning to the drawing-room she did so. The conversation was 
resumed, and most agreeably — every one bore a part in it. La- 
martine, Casimir Delavigne, Dumas, Victor Hugo, and some 
others, passed under a light but clever and acute review. Our 
Byron, Scott, &c. followed; and it was evident that they had 
been read and understood. I asked M. de Chateaubriand if he 
had known Lord Byron : he replied, " Non ;" adding, " Je I'avais 
precede dans la vie, et malheureusement il m'a precede au tom- 
beau."* 

The degree in which any country is capable of fully apprecia- 
ting the literature of another was canvassed, and M. de Chateau- 
briand declared himself decidedly of opinion that such apprecia- 
tion was always and necessarily very imperfect. Much that he 
said on the subject appeared incontrovertibly true, especially as 
respecting the slight and delicate shadows of expression, of which 

* No ; I came into the world before he did, and unhappily he has gone before me tp 
^e grave. 



156 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

the sutjtile grace so constantly seems to escape at the first attempt 
to convert it into another idiom. Nevertheless, I suspect that 
the majority of English readers — I mean the English readers of 
French — are more aufait of the original literature of France than 
M. de Chateaubriand supposes. 

The habit, so widely extended among us, of reading this lan- 
guage almost from infancy, gives us a greater familiarity with 
their idiom than he is aware of. He doubted if we could relish 
Moliere, and named Lafontaine as one beyond the reach of extra- 
Gallican criticism or enjoyment. 

I cannot agree to this, though I am not surprised that such an 
idea should exist. Every English person that comes to Paris is 
absolutely obliged to speak French, almost whether he can or can- 
not. If they shrink from doing so, they can have no hope of 
either speaking or being spoken to at all. This is alone sufBicient 
to account very satisfactorily, I think, for any doubt which may 
prevail as to the national proficiency in the language. No French- 
man that is at all in the habit of meeting the EngHsh in society 
but must have his ears and his memory full of false concords, 
false tenses, and false accents ; and can we wonder that he should 
set it down as a certain fact, that they who thus speak cannot be 
said to understand the language they so mangle ? Yet, plausible 
as the inference is, I doubt if it be altogether just. Which of the 
most accomplished Hellenists of either country would be found 
capable of sustaining a familiar conversation in Greek? The 
case is precisely the same ; for I have known very many whose 
power of tasting the beauty of French writing amounted to the 
most critical acuteness, who would have probably been unintelli- 
gible had they attempted to converse in the language for five 
minutes together ; whereas many others, who have perhaps had a 
French valet or waiting-maid, may possess a passably good accent 
and great facility of imitative expression in conversation, who yet 
would be puzzled how to construe with critical accuracy the 
easiest passage in Rousseau. 

A very considerable proportion of the educated French read 
English, and often appear to enter very ably into the spirit of our 
authors ; but there is not one in fifty of these who will pronounce 
a single word of the language in conversation. Though they 
endure with a polite gravity, perfectly imperturbable, the very 
drollest blunders of w^hich language is capable, they cannot endure 
to run the risk of making blunders in return. Every thing con- 
nected with the externals of good society is held as sacred by the 
members of it ; and if they shrink from offending la bienseance 
by laughing at the mistakes of others, they avoid, with at least an 
equal degree of caution, the unpardonable offence of committing 
any themselves. 



' PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 167 

I do not believe that it would be possible for a French person 
to enter into conversation merely for the pleasure of conversing, 
and not from the pressure of absolute necessity, unless he were 
certain, or at least believed himself to be so, that he should express 
himself with propriety and elegance. The idea of uttering the 
brightest or the noblest thought that ever entered a human head, 
in an idiom ridiculously broken, would, I am sure, be accompanied 
with a feeling of repugnance sufficient to tame the most animated, 
and silence the most loquacious Frenchman in existence. 

It therefore falls wholly upon the English, in this happy period 
of constant and intimate intercourse between the nations, to sub- 
mit to the surrender of their vanity, to gratify their love for con- 
versation ; blundering on in conscious defiance of grammar and 
accent, rather than lose the exceeding pleasure of listening in 
return to the polished phrase, the graceful period, the epigram- 
matic turn, which make so essential a part of genuine high-bred 
French conversation. 

But the doubt expressed by M. de Chateaubriand as to the 
possibility of the last and best grace of French writing being fully 
appreciated by foreigners, was not confined wholly to the English, 
— the Germans appeared to share it with us ; and one who has 
been recently proclaimed as the first of living German critics was 
quoted as having confounded in his style names found among the 
immortals of the French Pantheon, with those of such as live and 
die ; Monsieur Fontaine, and Monsieur Bruyere, being expressions 
actually extant in his writings. 

More than once, during subsequent visits to Madame Recamier, 
I led her to speak of her lost and illustrious friend. I have never 
been more interested than while listening to all which this charm- 
ing woman said of Madame de Stael ; every word she uttered 
seemed a mixture of pain and pleasure, of enthusiasm and regret. 
It is melancholy to think how utterly impossible it is that she should 
ever find another to replace her. She seems to feel this, and to 
have surrounded herself by every thing that can contribute to keep 
the recollection of what is for ever gone fresh in her memory. 
The original of the posthumous portrait of Madame de Stael by 
Gerard, made so familiar to all the world by engravings — nay, 
even by Sevres vases and teacups, hangs in her bedroom. The 
miniature I have mentioned is always near her ; and the inspired 
figure of her Corinne, in which it is evident that Madame Recamier 
traces a resemblance to her friend beyond that of features only, 
appears to be an object almost of veneration as well as love. 

It is delightful to approach thus to a being whom I have always 
been accustomed to contemplate as something in the clouds. 
Admirable and amiable as my charming new acquaintance is in a 
hundred ways, her past intimacy and ever-enduring affection for 
Madame de Stael have given her a still higher interest in my eyes. 



158 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER XXXI. 

Exhibition of Sevres China at the Louvre — Gobelins and Beauvais Tapestry — Legiti- 
m&tist Father and Doctrinaire Son — Copies from the Medicean Gallery. ■ 

We are just returned from an exhibition at the Louvre ; and a 
very splendid exhibition it is — though, alas ! but a poor consola- 
tion for the hidden treasures of 1,he picture-gallery. Several 
magnificent rooms are now open for the display of works in 
tapestry and Sevres porcelain ; and however much we might 
have preferred seeing something else there, it is impossible to 
deny that these rooms contain many objects as wonderful, per- 
haps, in their way, as any that the higher branches of art ever 
produced. 

The copy of Titian's portrait of his mistress on porcelain, and 
still more, perhaps, that of Raphael's " Virgin and St. John 
watching the sleep of the infant Jesus" (the Parce somnum rum- 
pere), are, I think, the most remarkable ; both being of the same 
size as the originals, and performed, with a perfection of colouring 
that is almost inconceivable. 

That the fragile clay of which porcelain is fabricated should so 
lend itself to the skill of the workman, — or rather, that the work- 
man's skill should so triumph over the million chances which 
exist against bringing unbroken out of the fire a smooth and level 
plaque of such extent, — is indeed most wonderful. Still more so 
is the skill which has enabled the artist to prophesy, as he painted 
with his grays and his greens, that the teints which flowed from 
his pencil of one colour, should assume, from the nicely-regu- 
lated action of an element the most difficult to govern, hues and 
shades so exquisitely imitative of his great original. 

But having acknowledged this, I have nothing more to say in 
praise of a tour de force, which, in my opinion, can only be 
attempted by the sacrifice of common sense. The chefs-d'ix.uvre 
of a Titian or a Raphael are treasures of which we may lawfully 
covet an imitation ; but why should it be attempted in a manner 
the most difficult, the most laborious, the most hkely to fail, and 
the most liable to destruction when completed ? — not to mention 
that, after all, there is in the most perfect copy on porcelain a 
something — I am mistress of no words to define it — which does 
not satisfy the mind. 

As far as regards my own feelings, indeed, I could go farther, 
and say that the effect produced is to a certain degree positively- 
disagreeable, — not quite unlike that occasioned by examining 
needlework performed without fingers, or watch-papers ex- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 159 

quisitely cut out by feet instead of hands. The admiration de- 
manded is less for the thing itself than for the very defective 
means employed to produce it. Were there indeed none other, 
the inventor would deserve a statue, and the artist, like Trisotin, 
should take the air " en carrosse dore ;" but as it is, I would 
rather see a good copy on canvass than on china. 

Far different, however, is the effect produced by this beautiful 
and ingenious branch of art when displayed in the embellishment 
of cups and plates, vases and teatrays. I never saw any thing 
more gracefully appropriate to the last high finish of domestic 
elegance than all the articles of this description exhibited this 
year at the Louvre. It is impossible to admire or to praise them 
too much ; or to deny that, wonderfully as similar manufactories 
have improved in England within the last thirty years, we have 
still nothing equal to the finer specimens of the Sevres porcelain. 

These rooms were, like every other place in Paris where 
human beings know that they shall meet each other, extremely 
full of company ; and I have certainly never seen such ecstasy 
of admiration produced by any objects exhibited to the public 
eye, as was elicited by some of the articles displayed on this 
occasion ; they are, indeed, most beautiful ; the form, the material, 
the workmanship, all perfect. 

The Sevres manufactory must, I think, have some individuals 
attached to it who have made the theory of colour an especial 
study. It is worth while to walk round the vast table, or rather 
platform, raised in the middle of the apartment, for the purpose of 
examining the different sets, with a view only to observe the effect 
produced on the eye by the arrangement of colours in each. 

The finest specimens, after the wonderful copies from pictures 
which I have already mentioned, are small breakfast-sets — for a 
tete-a-tete, I believe, — enclosed in large cases lined either with 
white satin or white velvet. These cases are all open for inspec- 
tion, but with a stout brass bar around, to protect them from the 
peril of too near an approach. The lid is so formed as exactly to 
receive the tray ; while the articles to be placed upon it, when in 
use, are arranged each in its own delicate recess, with such an 
attention to composition and general effect as to show all and 
every thing to the greatest possible advantage. 

Some of these exquisite specimens are decorated with flowers, 
some with landscapes, and others with figures, or miniatures of 
heads, either superlative in beauty or distinguished by fame. 
These beautiful decorations, admirable as they all are in design 
and execution, struck me less than the perfect taste with which 
the reigning colour which pervades each set, either as. back- 
ground, hning, or border, is made to harmonize with the orna- 
ments upon it. 



160 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. ' 

It is a positive pleasure, independent of the amusement which 
may be derived from a closer examination, to cast the eye over the 
general effect produced by the consummate taste and skill thus dis- 
played. Those curious affinities and antipathies among colours, 
which I have seen made the subject of many pretty experimental 
lectures, must, I am sure, have been studied and acted upon by the 
colour-master of each department ; and the result is to my feelings 
productive of a pleasure, from the contemplation of the effect pro- 
duced, as distinct from the examination of the design, or of any 
other circumstance connected with the art, as the gratification pro- 
duced by the smell of an orange-blossom or a rose : it is a pleas- 
ure which has no connexion with the intellect, but arises solely 
from its agreeable effect on the sense. 

The eye seems to be unconsciously soothed and gratified, and 
lingers upon the rich, the soft, or the brilliant hues, with a satisfac- 
tion that positively amounts to enjoyment. 

Whoever may be occupied by the " delightful task" of fitting up 
a sumptuous drawing-room, will do well to take a tour round a 
room filled with sets of Sevres porcelain. The important question 
of " What colours shall we mix ?" would receive an answer there, 
with the delightful certainty that no solecism in taste could pos- 
sibly be committed by obeying it. 

The Gobelins and Beauvais work for chairs, screens, cushions, 
and various other articles, makes a great display this year. It is 
very beautiful, both in design and execution ; and at the present 
moment, when the stately magnificence of the age of Louis Quinze 
is so much in vogue — in compliment, it is said, to the taste of the 
Due d'Orleans — this costly manufacture is likely again to flourish. 

Never can a large and lofty chamber present an appearance of 
more princely magnificence than when thus decorated ; and the 
manner in which this elaborate style of ancient embellishment is 
now adapted to modern use, is equally ingenious and elegant. 

Some political economists talk of the national advantage of de- 
creasing labour by machinery, while others advocate every fashion 
which demands the work of hands. I will not attempt to decide 
on which side wisdom lies ; but, in our present imperfect condition, 
every thing that brings an innocent and profitable occupation to 
women appears to me desirable. 

The needles of France are assuredly the most skilful in the 
world ; and, set to work as they are upon designs that rival those 
of the Vatican in elegance, they produce a perfection of embroi- 
dery that sets all competition at defiance. 

In pursuing my way along the rail which encloses the speci- 
mens exhibited — a progress which was necessarily very slow from 
the pressure of the crowd — I followed close behind a tall, elegant, 
aristocratic-looking gentleman, who was accompanied by his son 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. I6l 

—decidedly his son — the boy "fathered himself;" I never saw a 
stronger likeness. Their conversation, which I overheard by no 
act of impertinent listening, but because I could not possibly avoid 
it, amused me much. I am seldom thrown into such close con- 
tact with strangers without making a fancy-sketch of who and 
what they are ; but upon this occasion I was thrown out — it was 
like reading a novel, the denouement of which is so well concealed 
as to evade guessing. The boy and his father were not of one 
mind ; their observations were made in the spirit of different par- 
ties : the father, I suspect, was a royalist — the son, I am sure, was 
a young doctrinaire. The crowd hung long upon the spot where 
a magnificent collection of embroidery for the seats and backs of 
a set of chairs was displayed. " They are for the Duke of Or- 
leans," said the father. 

"Yes, yes," said the boy; "they are fit for him — they are 
princely." 

" They are fit for a king !" said the father, with a sigh. 

The lad paused for a moment, and then said, avec intention, as 
the stage-directions express it, " Mais lui aussi, il est fils de St. 
Louis ; n'est-ce pas ?"* The father answered not, and the crowd 
moved on. 

All I could make of this was, that the boy's instructer, whether 
male or female, was a faithful disciple of the " Parcequ'^'Z est 
Bourbon'^ school ; and whatever leaven of wavering faith may be 
mixed up with this doctrine, it forms perhaps the best defence to 
be found for attachment to the reigning dynasty among those who 
are too young to enter fully into the expediency part of the question. 

In the last of the suite of rooms opened for this exhibition are 
displayed splendid pieces of tapestry, from subjects taken from 
Rubens's Medicean Gallery. 

That the achievement of these enormous combinations of 
stitches must have been a labour of extreme difficulty, there can 
be no doubt ; but notwithstanding my admiration for French nee- 
dles, I am tempted to add, in the words of our uncompromising 
moralist, " Would it had been impossible !" 

* But he, too, is a child of St. Louis, is he not ? 

L 



163 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER XXXIL 



Eglise Apostolique Frangaise — Its doctrine — L'Abbe Auzou — His Sermon on " les Plai- 

sirs PopuJaires." 

Among the multitude of friendly injunctions to see this, and to 
hear that, which have produced me so much agreeable occupation, 
I have more than once been very earnestly recommended to visit 
the " Eglise Apostolique Fran§aise" on the Boulevard !St. Denis, 
for the purpose of hearing I'Abbe Auzou, and still more, that I 
might have an opportunity of observing the peculiarities of this 
mode of worship, or rather of doctrine ; for, in fact, the ceremo- 
nies at the altar differ but little, as far as I can perceive, from 
those of the Church of Rome, excepting that the evident poverty 
of the establislmaent precludes the splendour which usually attends 
the performance of its oiSces. I have no very satisfactory data 
by which to judge of the degree of estimation in which this new 
sect is held : by some I have heard them spoken of as apostles, 
and by others as a Paria caste unworthy of any notice. 

Before hearing M. I'Abbe Auzou, or attending the service at 
his church, I wished to read some of the publications which ex- 
plain their tenets, and accordingly called at the little bureau be- 
hind their chapel on the Boulevard St. Denis, where we were told 
these publications could be found. Having purchased several 
pamphlets, containing catechism, hymns, sermons, and so forth, 
we entered into conversation with the young man who presided 
in this obscure and dark closet, dignified by the name of " Secre- 
tariat de I'Eglise Apostolique Franqaise." 

He told us that he was assistant minister of the chapel, and we 
found him extremely conversible and communicative. 

The chief differences between this new church and those which 
have preceded it in the reform of the Roman Catholic religion, 
appear to consist in the preservation of the external forms of wor- 
ship, which other reformers have rejected, and also of several 
dogmas, purely doctrinal, and wholly unconnected with those prin- 
ciples of church power and church discipline, the abuse of which 
was the immediate cause of all Protestant reform. 

They acknowledge the real presence. I find in the CaUchisme 
these questions and answers : — 

" Is Jesus Christ corporeally present in the bread, or in the 
wine ? — In both at the same time, 

*' And when the host is broken ? — Jesus Christ is in both pieces. 

" What should we do on the day in which we have partaken 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 163 

of the communion? — Attend the sacred ordinances, and after that 
enjoy ourselves in the society of our relatives and friends," 

Their clergy are permitted to marry. They deny that any 
power of absolution rests with the priest, allowing him only that 
of intercession by prayer for the forgiveness of the penitent. 
Auricular confession is not enjoined, but recommended as useful 
to children. They profess entire toleration to every variety of 
Christian belief; but as the " Eglise Franqaise" refuses to ac- 
knowledge dependance upon any secte etrangere, — by which 
phrase 1 conceive the Church of Rome to be meant, — they also 
declare, "d'apres I'Evangile, que la religion ne doit jamais inter- 
venir dans les gouvernemens temporels." 

They recognise the seven sacraments, only modifying that of 
penitence, as above mentioned. They deny the eternity of pun- 
ishment, but I find no mention of purgatory. They do not enjoin 
fasting. I find in the Catechisme the following explanation of their 
doctrine on this head, which appears to be extremely reasonable. 

"Does not the French Church, then, require fasting and absti- 
nence ? — No ; the French Apostolic Church leaves fasting at the 
option of the faithful themselves, and in no sense recommends the 
precept of abstinence ; but, more prudent in its doctrines, substi- 
tutes for an occasional fast an habitual sobriety, and replaces a pe- 
riodical abstinence by temperance observed each day, each year, 
through life." 

In all this there appears little in doctrine, excepting the admis- 
sion of the divine presence in the elements of the eucharist, that 
differs greatly from most other reformed churches : nevertheless, 
the ceremonies are entirely similar to those of the Roman Cath- 
olic religion. 

But whatever there may be either of good or of evil in this mix- 
ture, its effect must, I think, prove absolutely, nugatory on society, 
from the entire absence of any church government or discipline 
whatever. That this is in fact the case, is thus plainly stated in 
the preface to their published Catechism : — 

" The French Apostolic Church recognises no hierarchy ; it con- 
sequently rejects the authority of any foreign spiritual power, and 
of any other power which depends thereon, or submits thereto. 
It recognises no spiritual authority but that which results from the 
concurrence of the faithful ; a concurrence which, according to 
the principles of the apostles, alone constitutes what in their 
time was called a church. 

" It is not supported by the state. The administration of its 
spiritual assistance is gratuitous. It has no tariff of charges, 
either for baptism, or marriages, or burials. It is maintained at 
little expense, and for this relies on the generosity, or rather on 
the will, of the faithful. 

h 2 



164 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

" Recognising no hierarchy, neither does it acknowledge any 
division of territory, either into diocesses or parishes ; it receives 
all Christians who present themselves, asking from its ministers 
the fulfilment of the duties appertaining to their sacred office." 

The decousu principles of the day can hardly be carried farther 
than this. A rope of sand is the only fitting emblem for a con- 
gregation so constituted ; and, like a rope of sand, it must of 
necessity fall asunder, for there is no principle of union to pre- 
vent it. 

After I had finished my studies on the subject, I heard a ser- 
mon preached in the church, — not, however, by M. I'Abbe Auzou, 
who was ill, but by the same person with whom we had conversed 
at the Secretariat. His sermon was a strong exposition of the 
abuses practised by the clergy of the Church of Rome, — a theme 
certainly more fertile than new. 

In reading some of the most celebrated discourses of the Abbe 
Auzou, I was the most struck with one entitled — " Discours sur 
les Plaisirs Populaires, les Bals, et les Spectacles." The text 
is from St. Matthew, — " Come unto me all ye that labour and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest .... for my yoke is easy, 
and my burden is light." 

In this singular discourse, among some things that are reasona- 
ble, and more that are plausible, it is impossible to avoid seeing a 
spirit of lawless uncontrol, which seems to breathe more of revo- 
lution than of piety. 

I am no advocate for a Judaical observance of the Sabbath, nor 
am I ignorant of the fearful abuses which have arisen from man's 
daring to arrogate to himself a power vested in God alone, — the 
power of forgiving the sins of man. The undue authority as- 
sumed by the sovereign pontiff of Rome is likewise sufficiently 
evident, as are many other abuses justly reprobated in the ser- 
mons of the Abbe Auzou. Nevertheless, education, observation, 
and I might say experience, have taught me that religion requires 
and demands that care, protection, and government which are so 
absolutely essential to the wellbeing of every community of hu- 
man beings who would unite together for one general object. 
To talk of a self-governing church is just as absurd as to talk of 
a self-governing ship, or a self-governing family. 

It should seem, by the reprobation expressed against the sever- 
ity of the Roman Catholic clergy in these sermons, as well as from 
anecdotes which I have occasionally heard in society, that the 
Church of Rome and the Church of Calvin are alike hostile to 
every kind of dissipation, and that at the present moment they 
have many points of discipline in common — at least as respects 
the injunctions laid upon their congregations respecting their pri- 
vate conduct. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 165 

M. I'Abbe Auzou says, in speaking of revolutionary reforms,— 

" There has been no change in the priesthood ; and it may also 
be said of the priests, still Roman in character, that they have 
forgotten nothing, and learned nothing. Yet, under the reign of 
Napoleon, their pride was overcome by the great interest of their 
restoration ; but when their legitimate king resumed his sway, 
their restrained but elastic pride swelled forth again to its original 
dimensions. Rome has established her throne side by side with 
that of a king, slightly tinged with philosophy, it is said, but feeble 
and inactive. And when his successor, at first welcomed by the 
people, finally threw himself into the arms of the priests, these 
last, taking advantage of his age and imbecility, made their advan- 
tage of a youthful ardour, which had nevertheless gained for him 
the title of French Chevalier. Then we saw the king sacrificing 
his popularity to their exactions — requiring the whole nation to 
take part in his expiation for private errors, in his repentance and 
his grief — and demanding of them to forget, as it were, thirty 
years of glory and of liberty. A king devoured by remorse, and 
who could perceive no hope of succour but in the priest who had 
subjugated his intellect by menaces and the terror of hell-fire — 
this king, for the sake of a conditional, ever promised, but never 
granted absolution, abdicated, without knowing it, in favour of his 
confessor. Oh, king, thou languishest in exile, and thy sins are 
visited upon thy children, even to the third generation ! 

" But, in the meantime, the priests have yielded submission to 
another monarch, to whom the sovereignty of the people has con- 
fided the sceptre ; their prayers are offered for him, and we know 
with how much sincerity. 

" But 0, people, how heavy is their yoke upon you ! In their 
ill-concealed rage they exclaim, ' The house of the Lord is de- 
serted, and ye rush like madmen to your pleasures, your feasts, 
your dances, and your plays. Anathema, then, upon these pleas- 
ures, these dances, and these feasts — anathema maranatha upon 
these plays.' 

" How different is our language ! The God of the Jews is still 
our God ; but his anger is appeased by the sacrifice made by his 
Son for our redemption. 

" To what good end was the blood of that sacrifice poured out 
upon the cross for our sins, if the satisfaction of our physical 
necessities, if our intellectual faculties, if the sway of the pas- 
sions which constitute our nature, can at any moment betray us 
into sin, and plunge our souls into the abyss of perdition ? 

" Therefore, we say to you from our apostolic chair, ' Obey the 
commandments of God, adore and glorify the Father who is in 
heaven, practise the morality of the gospel, love your neighbour 
as yourselves, and you will have fulfilled the law of Jesus Christ' 



166 ~ PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

— and we add — * You are a member of the society for which you 
were created, and towards that society you have duties to per- 
form ; in return, it provides for you pleasures and enjoyments : 
perform your duties, and partake without scruple of the enjoy- 
ments that are offered you. Your participation of them is itself 
a duty, and in performing it you will also fulfil the law of Jesus 
Christ.' " 

This doctrine may assuredly entitle the Eglise Apostohque 
Fran^aise to the appellation of a New Church. 

The abbe then proceeds to promulgate his bull for the permis- 
sion of all sorts of Parisian delights ; nay, he takes a very pretty 
and picturesque ramble into the country, where " les jeunes gar- 
(jons et les jeunes filles s'y livrent a des danses rustiques"— and, 
in short, gives so animated a picture of the pleasures vyhich ought 
to await the Sabbath both in town and country, that it is almost 
impossible to read it without feehng a wish that every human 
being who, through the six days of needful labour, has been 
" weary worn with care," should pass the seventh amid the bright 
and cheering scenes he describes. But he effectually checks this 
feeling of sympathy with his views by what follows. He de- 
scribes habitual drunkenness with the disgust it merits ; but 
strangely qualifies this, by adding to his condemnation of the 
*' homme degrade qui, oubliant chaque jour sa dignite dans les 
exces d'une hideuse ivrognerie, n^attend pas le jour que Dieu a 
consacre au repos, a la distraction, aux plaisirs, pour se livrer a 
son ignoble passion,"* these dangerous words : — 

" Mais condamnerons-nous sans retour notre frere pour un jour 
d'intemperance passagere, et blamerons-nous celui qui, cherchant 
dans le vin, ce present du Ciel, un moment d'oubh des miseres 
humaines, n'a point su s'arreter a cette douce ivresse, oublieuse 
des maux et creatrice d'heureuses illusions ?"t 

Is not this using the spur where the rein is most wanting? I 
am persuaded that it is not the intention of the Abbe Auzou to 
advocate any species of immorality ; but all the world, and par- 
ticularly the French world perhaps, is so well disposed to amuse 
itself, coute qui coute, that I confess I doubt the wisdom of enfor- 
cing the necessity of so doing from the pulpit. 

The unwise, unauthorized, and most unchristian severity of the 
Calvinistic and Romish priesthood may, I think, lawfully and righ- 
teously be commented upon and reprobated both in the pulpit and 

* The degraded man who, daily forgetting the dignity of his nature in the excesses 
of a hideous intoxication, does not wait for the day which God has consecrated to rest, to re- 
laxation, and to pleasure, for the indulgence of his ignoble passion. 

t But shall we utterly condemn our brother for an occasional day of intemperance, and 
shall we censure him who, seeking in wine, that gift of Heaven, a moment of escape 
from the miseries incident to human nature, has been unable to restrain liimseK at that 
/lelicious point of ale vatioa which banishes the remembrance of sorrow, an(i creates such 
happy illusions ? 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 167 

out of it ; but this reprobation should not clothe itself in license, 
or in any language that can be interpreted as such. There are 
many, I should think, in every Christian land, both clergy and 
laity, but neither popish nor Calvinistic, who would shrink both 
from the sentiment and expression of the following passage : — 

" Rappelons-nous que le patriarche Noe, lui qui planta la vigne 
et exprima le jus de son fruit, en abusa une fois, et que Dieu ne 
lui en fit point le reproche : Dieu punit, au co^itraire, le fils qui 
n'avait point cache cette faiblesse d'un pere."* 

There is some worldly wisdom, however, in the exclamation he 
addresses to his intolerant brethren. 

" And you, blind and unwise priests, leave the people to the en- 
joyment of their innocent pleasures ; strive to make them content 
with their lot ; let them not compare it, bad and painful as it is, 
with the luxurious idleness in which you live yourselves, and in 
which it is by the sweat of their brows that you are maintained." 

Then follows an earnest defence, or rather eulogy, of dancing. 
But though I greatly approve the exercise for young people, and 
believe it to be as innocent as it is natural, I would not, were I 
called upon to preach a sermon, address my hearers after this 
manner : — 

" As for balls, I will not undertake to excuse or to defend them 
hy examples recorded in the sacred Scriptures. I will not recall 
to you David dancing before the ark. I will not hold him up as 
a model to you, young people of France, so polished and so elegant, 
for without doubt he danced ungracefully ; since we read in the 
Bible that Michal, his wife, seeing the king leaping and dancing, 
laughed at him and despised him in her heart." There is about 
as much piety as good taste in this. 

I have already given you such long extracts, that I must omit 
all he says, — and it is much — in favour of this amusement. Such 
forbearance is the more necessary, as I must give you a passage 
or two more on other subjects. Among the general reasons which 
he brings forward to prove that fetes and festivals are beneficial to 
the people, he very justly remarks that the occupation they afford 
to industry is not the least important, observing that the popish 
church takes no heed of such things ; and then adds, addressing 
the manufacturers, — 

" Et lorsque le besoin se fera sentir et pour vous et vos e'nfans 

allez k I'Archeveche ! a I'Archeveche ! . . . . un jour la 

colere du peuple a eclate, — 

" J'e n'ai fait qae passer, il n'etait deja plus." . . . .f 

* Let us remember that the patriarch Noah, he who planted the vine and pressed o" 
the juice of the grape, once committed an excess, and that God reproved him not; b'j 
on the contrary, punished the son who did not conceal the weakness of his father. 

t And when want shall make itself felt among you and your children, go to the Arcl- 
bishop— to the Archbishop ! Once the wrath of the people broke forth— I did but pE.» 
and he had ceased to be. 



168 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

The date which this sermon bears on its title-page is 1834 ; but 
the event to which this line from Racine alludes was the destruc- 
tion of the archiepiscopal palace, which took place, if I mistake 
not, in 1831. If the " il rCetait dejd plus^' alludes to the palace, 
it is correct enough, for destruction could not have done its work 
better : but if it be meant to describe the fate of Monseigneur 
l'Archeveque de Paris, the preacher is not a prophet ; for, in 
truth, the sacrilegious rout " n'a fait que passer," and Monseig- 
neur has only risen higher from the blow. Public orators of all 
kinds should be very cautious, in these moveable times, how they 
venture to judge from to-day what may be to-morrow. The only 
oracular sentence that can be uttered at present with the least 
chance of success from the development of the future is, " Who 
can say what may happen next ?" All who have sufficient pru- 
dence to restrict their prescience to this acute form of prophecy, 
may have the pleasure, let come what may, of turning to their 
neighbours triumphantly with the question — " Did I not tell you 
that something was going to happen ?" — but it is dangerous to be 
one atom more precise. Even before this letter can reach you, 
my friend M. 1' Abbe's interpretation of " il n'etait deja plus" may 
be more correct than mine. I say this, however, only to save my 
credit with you in case of the worst ; for my private opinion is, 
that Monseigneur was never in a more prosperous condition in his 
life, and that, " as no one can say what will happen next," I should 
not be at all astonished if a cardinal's hat were speedily to reward 
him for all he has done and suffered. 

I certainly intended to give you a few specimens of the Abbe 
Auzou's manner of advocating theatrical exhibitions ; but I fear 
they would lead me into too great length of citation. He is some- 
times really eloquent upon the subject : nevertheless, his opinions 
on it, however reasonable, would have been delivered with better 
effect from the easy-chair of his library than from the pulpit of his 
church. It is not that what would be good when heard from the 
one could become evil when listened to from the other : but the 
preacher's pulpit is intended for other uses ; and though the visits 
to a well-regulated theatre may be as lawful as eating, and as 
innocent too, we go to the house of God in the hope of hearing 
tidings more important than his minister's assurance that they 
are so. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 169 



LETTER XXXIII. 



Establishment for Insane Patients at Vanves — Description of the arrangements—. 
Englishman — His religious madness. 

You will think, perhaps, that I have chosen oddly the object 
which has induced me to make an excursion out of town, and 
obhged me to give up nearly an entire day at Paris, when I tell 
you that it was to visit an institution for the reception of the 
insane. There are, however, few things which interest me more 
than an establishment of this nature ; especially when, as in the 
present instance, my manner of introduction to it is such as to 
give me the hope of hearing the phenomena of these awful maladies 
discussed by those well acquainted with them. The estabhsh- 
ment of MM. Voisin and Fabret, at Vanves, was mentioned to 
me as one in which many improvements in the mode of treating 
alienation of mind have been suggested and tried with excellent 
effect; and having the opportunity of visiting it in company with 
a lady who was well acquainted with the gentlemen presiding 
over it, I determined to take advantage of it. My friend, too, 
knew how to direct my attention to what was most interesting, 
from having had a relation placed there, whom for many months 
she had been in the constant habit of visiting. 

Her introduction obtained for me the most attentive reception, 
and the fullest explanation of their admirable system, which ap- 
pears to me to combine, and on a very large and noble scale, 
every thing likely to assuage the sufferings, sooth the spirits, and 
contribute to the health of the patients. 

Vanves is situated at the distance of one league from Paris, in 
a beautiful part of the country; and the establishment itself, from 
almost every part of the high ground on which it is placed, com- 
mands views so varied and extensive, as not only to render the 
principal mansion a charming residence, but really to make the 
walks and drives within the enclosure of the extensive premises 
delightful. 

The grounds are exceedingly well laid out, with careful atten- 
tion to the principal object for which they are arranged, but with- 
out neglecting any of the beauty of which the spot is so capable. 
They have shade and flowers, distant views and sheltered seats, 
with pleasant walks, and even drives and rides, in all directions. 
The enclosure contains about sixty acres, to every part of which 
the patients who are well enough to walk about can be admitted 
with perfect safety. 



170 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

In this park are situated two or three distinct lodges, which are 
found occasionally to be of the greatest utility, in cases where the 
most profound quiet is necessary, and yet where too strict con- 
finement would be injurious. Indeed, it appears to me that the 
object principally kept in view throughout all the arrangements, 
is the power of keeping patients out of sight and hearing of each 
other till they are sufficiently advanced towards recovery to make 
it a real pleasure and advantage to associate together. 

As soon as they reach this favourable stage of their conva- 
lescence, they mix with the family in ver}'^ handsome rooms, where 
books, music, and a billiard-table assist them to pass the hours 
without ennui. Every patient has a separate sleeping-apartment, 
in none of which are the precautions necessary for their safety 
permitted to be visible. What would wear the appearance of iron 
bars in every other place of the kind that 1 have seen, are here 
made to look like very neat jalousies. Not a bolt or a bar is 
perceptible, nor any object whatever that might shock the spirit, 
if at any time a gleam of recovered intellect should return to 
visit it. 

This cautious keeping out of sight of the sufferers every thing 
that might awaken them to a sense of their own condition, or that 
of the other patients, appears to me to be the most peculiar 
feature of the discipline, and is evidently one of the objects most 
sedulously kept in view. Next to this 1 should place the system 
of inducing the male patients to exercise their limbs, and amuse 
their spirits, by working in the garden, at any undertaking, how- 
ever bizarre and profitless, which can induce them to keep mind 
and body healthily employed. I know not if this has been sys- 
tematically resorted to elsewhere ; but the good sense of it is 
certainly very obvious, and the effect, as I was told, is found to 
be very generally beneficial ; though it occasionally happens that 
some among them have fancied their dignity compromised by 
using a spade or a hoe, — and then some of the family join with 
them in the labour, to prove that it is merely a matter of amuse- 
ment : in short, every thing likely to cheer or sooth the spirits 
seems brought into use among them. 

The ground close adjoining to the house is divided into many 
small well-enclosed gardens ; the women's apartments opening to 
some, the men's to others of them. In several of these gardens I 
observed neat little tables, such as are used in the restaurans of 
Paris, with a clean cloth, and all necessary appointments, placed 
pleasantly and commodiously in the shade, at each of which was 
seated one person, who was served with a separate dinner, and 
with every appearance of comfort. Had I not known their con- 
dition, I should in many instances have thought the spectacle a 
very pleasing one. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 171 

M. Voisin walked through all parts of the establishment with us, 
and there appeared to exist a perfectly good understanding be- 
tween him and his patients. Among many regulations, which all 
appeared excellent, he told me that the friends of his inmates were 
permitted at all times, and under all circumstances, to visit them 
without any restraint whatever : an arrangement which can only 
be productive of confidence and advantage to all parties ; as it is 
perfectly inconceivable that any one who had felt obliged to place 
an unhappy friend or relative under restraint, should wish to inter- 
fere with the discipline necessary for his ultimate advantage ; 
whereas a contrary system is likely to give occasion to constant 
doubts and fears on one hand, and to the possibility of ill treat- 
ment or unnecessary restraint on the other. In one of the courts 
appropriated to the use of such male patients as were sufficiently 
convalescent to permit their associating together, and amusing 
themselves with the different games in which they are permitted 
to share, we saw a young Englishman, now rapidly recovering, 
but who had scrawled over the walls of his own sleeping-apart-, 
ment, poor fellow ! with a pencil, a vast quantity of writing, al- 
most wholly on religious subjects ; proving but too plainly that he 
was one of the many victims of fanaticism. Every thought seem- 
ed pregnant with suffering, and sometimes bursts of agony were 
scrawled in trembling characters, that spoke the very extremity of 
terror. " Who is there can endure fire and flame for ever, for 
ever, and for ever ?" — " Death is before us — Hell follows it !" — 
" The bottomless pit — groans — tortures — anguish — for ever !" . . . 
Such sentences as these were still legible, though much had been 
obliterated. 

Who can wonder that a mind thus occupied should lose that 
fine balance with which nature has arranged our faculties, making 
one keep watch and ward over the other ? . . . This poor fellow 
lost his wits under the process of conversion : judgment being 
entirely overthrown, imagination had vaulted into its seat, preg- 
nant with visions black as night, dark — oh ! far darker than the 
tomb! "palled in the dunnest smoke of hell," and armed with 
every image for the eternity of torture that the ingenuity of man 
could devise. Who can wonder at his madness ? And how many 
crimes are there recorded in the Newgate Calendar which equal 
in atrocity that of so distorting a mind, that sought to raise its 
humble hopes towards heaven ! 

I felt particularly interested for this poor lunatic, both as my 
countryman, and the victim of by far the most fearful tyranny 
that man can exercise on man. Against all other injury it is not 
difficult to believe that a steadfast spirit can arm itself, and say 
with Hamlet, 

" I do not set my life at a pin's fee." 



172 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

But against this, it were a vain boast to add, 

" And for my soul, what can it do to that, 
Being a thing immortal as itseK?" 

For, alas ! it is that very immortality which gives hope, comfort, 
and strength under every other persecution that paralyzes the suf- 
ferer under this, and arms with such horrid strength the blasphe- 
mous wretch who teaches him to turn in terror from his God. 

M. Voisin told me that this unfortunate young man had been 
for some time daily becoming more calm and tranquil, and that he 
entertained not any doubt of his ultimate recovery. 

Excepting this my poor countryman, the only patient I saw 
whose situation it was particularly painful to contemplate, was a 
young girl, who had only arrived the preceding day. There was 
in her eyes a restless, anxious, agitated manner of looking about 
on all things, and gathering a distinct idea from none — a vague 
uncertainty as to where she was, not felt with sufficient strength 
to amount to wonder, but enough to rob her of all the feeling of 
repose which belongs to home. Poor girl ! perhaps some falter- 
ing, unfixable thought brought at intervals the figure of her moth- 
er to her ; for, as I looked at her pale face, its vacant expression 
received more than once a sad but passing gleam of melancholy 
meaning. She coughed frequently ; but the cough seemed affect- 
ed, — or rather, it appeared to be an eflfort not so much required by 
her lungs as by the need of some change, some relief — she knew 
not what, nor where nor how to seek it. She appeared very de- 
sirous of shaking off the attendance of a woman who was waiting 
upon her, and her whole manner indicated a sort of fretful unrest 
that it made one wretched to contemplate. But here again I was 
comforted by the assurance that there were no symptoms which 
forbade hope of recovery. 

I remember being told, when visiting the lunatic asylum near 
New-York, that the most frequent causes of insanity were ascer- 
tained to be religion and drunkenness. Near Paris I find that love, 
high play, and politics are considered as the principal causes of 
this calamity ; and certainly nothing can be more accordant with 
what observation would teach one to expect than both these state- 
ments. At New-York the physician told me that madness arising 
from excessive drinking admitted, in the great majority of cases, 
of a perfect cure ; but that religious aberration of intellect was 
much more enduring. 

At Paris I have heard the same ; for here also it occasionally 
happens, though not often, that the reason becomes disturbed by 
repeated and frequent intoxication : but where either politics or 
love has taken such hold of the mind as to disturb the reasoning 
power, the recovery is less certain and more slow. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 173 

Dr. Voisin told me that he uniformly found the first symptoms 
of insanity appear ia the wavering, indifferent, and altered state 
of the affections towards relations and friends ; — apathy, coldness, 
and, in some cases, dislike, and even violent antipathy, being sure 
to appear, wherever previous attachment had been the most re- 
markable. They sometimes, but not very often, take capricious 
fits of fondness for strangers ; but never with any show of reason, 
and never for any length of time. The most certain symptom of 
an approach towards recovery is when the heart appears to be re- 
awakened to its natural feelings and old attachments. 

There was one old lady whom I watched eating her dinner of 
vegetables and fruit at a little table in one of the gardens, who had 
adorned her bonnet with innumerable scraps of trumpery, and set 
it on her head with the most studied and coquettish air imaginable : 
she fed herself with the grace or grimace of a young beauty, eat- 
ing grapes of a guinea a pound, from a plate of crystal, with a 
golden fork. I am sure she was enjoying all the happiness of 
feeling herself beautiful, elegant, and admired ; and when I looked 
at the wrinkled ruin of her once handsome face, I could hardly 
think her madness a misfortune ; for though I did not obtain any 
pitiful story concerning her, or any history of the cause which 
brought her there, I felt sure that it must in some way or other 
be connected with some feeling of deeply-mortified vanity : and 
if I am right in my conjecture, what has the world left for her 
equal in consolation to the wild fancies which now shed such 
simpering complacency over her countenance ? And might we 
not exclaim for her in all kindness — 

" Let but the cheat endure ! — She asks not aught beside V 

What was passing in this poor old head, it was easy enough 
to guess — wild as it was, and wide from the truth. But there was 
another, which, though I studied it as long as I could possibly 
contrive to do so, wholly baffled me ; and yet I would have given 
much to know what thoughts were flitting through that young 
brain. 

She tWas a young girl, extremely pretty, with coal-black hair 
and eyes, and seated, quite apart from all, upon a pleasant shady 
bench in one of the gardens. Her face was like a fair landscape, 
over which pass cloud and sunshine in rapid succession : for one 
moment she smiled, and the next seemed preparing to weep ; but 
before a tear could fall, her fine teeth were again displayed in an 
unmeaning smile. 0, what could be the fleeting visions formed 
that worked her fancy thus ? Could it be memory ? Or was the 
fitful emotion caused by the galloping vagaries of an imagination 
which outstripped the power of reason to follow it ? Or was it 
none of this, but a mere meaningless movement of the muscles. 



174 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

that worked in idle mockery of the intellect that used to govern 
thenm ? 

I have sometimes thought it very strange that people should 
feel such deep delight in watching on the stage the representation 
of the utmost extremity of human wo that the mind of man can 
contrive to place before them ; and I have wondered more, much 
more, at the gathering .together of thousands and tens of thou- 
sands, whenever the law has doomed that some wretched soul 
should be separated by the hand of man from the body in which 
it has sinned : but I doubt if my own intense interest in watching 
poor human nature when deprived of reason is not stranger still. 
I can in no way account for 4t ; but so it is. I can never with- 
draw myself from the contemplation of a maniac without reluc- 
tance ; and yet I am always conscious of painful feelings as long 
as it lasts, and perfectly sure that I shall be followed by more 
painful feelings still when it is over. 

It is certain, however, that the comfort, the tenderness, the 
care, so evident in every part of the establishment at Vanves, 
render the contemplation of insanity there less painful than I ever 
found it elsewhere ; and when I saw the air of healthy physical 
enjoyment (at least) with which a large number of the patients 
prepared to take their pastime, during their hours of exercise, each 
according to his taste or whim, amid the ample space and well- 
chosen accessories prepared for them, I could not but wish that 
every retreat fitted up for the reception of this unfortunate portion 
of the human race could be arranged on the same plan and gov- 
erned by the same principles. 



LETTER XXXIV. 

Riot at the Porte St. Martin — Prevented by a shower of Rain — The Mob in fine weather 
— How to stop Emeutes — Army of Italy — Theatre Frangais — Mademoiselle Mars in 
Henriette — Disappearance of Comedy. 

Though Paris is really as quiet at present as any great city 
can possibly be, still we continue to be told regularly every morn- 
ing, " qu'il y avait une emeute hier soir a la Porte St. Martin." 
But I do assure you that these are very harmless little pastimes ; 
and though it seldom happens that the mysterious hour of revolu- 
tion-hatching passes by without some arrest taking place, the par- 
ties are always liberated the next morning ; it having appeared 
clearly at every examination that the juvenile aggressors, who are 
seldom above twenty years of age, are as harmless as a set of 







F .175. 



•.ler ,1- Brotlicrc lS3i5 . 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 17S 

croaking bullfrogs on the banks of the Wabash. The continu- 
ally repeated mention, however, of these nightly meetings, in- 
duced two gentlemen of our party to go to this often-named Porte 
St. Martin a few nights ago, in hopes of seeing the humours of 
one of these small riotings. But on arriving at the spot they 
found it perfectly tranquil — every thing wore the proper stillness 
of an orderly and well-protected night. A few military were, 
however, hovering near the spot ; and of these they made inquiry 
as to the cause of a repose so unlike what was usually supposed 
to be the stale of this celebrated quarter of the town. 

" Mais ne voyez-vous pas que I'eau tombe, messieurs ?" said 
the national guard stationed there : " c'est bien assez pour refroidir 
le feu de nos republicains. S'il fait beau domain soir, messieurs, 
nous aurons encore notre petit spectacle."* 

Determined to know whether there was any truth in these his- 
tories or not, and half suspecting that the whole thing, as well as 
the assurance of the civil militaire to boot, was neither more nor 
less than a hoax, they last night, the weather being .remarkably 
fine, again attempted the adventure, and with very different suc- 
cess. 

On this occasion, there was, by their description, as pretty a 
little riot as heart could wish. The numbers assembled were 
stated to be above four hundred : military, both horse and foot, 
were among them ; pointed hats were as plenty as blackberries 
in September, and " banners waved without a blast" on the tot- 
tering shoulders of little ragamuffins who had been hired for two 
sous apiece to carry them. 

On this memorable evening, which has really made a figure 
this morning in some of the republican journals, a considerable 
number of the most noisy portion of the mob were arrested ; but, 
on the whole, the military appear to have dealt very gently with 
them ; and our friends heard many a crazy burst of artisan elo- 
quence, which might have easily enough been construed into trea- 
son, answered with no rougher repartee than a laughing *' Vive 
le Roi !" 

At one point, however, there was a vehement struggle before a 
young hero, equipped cap-a-pie a la Robespierre, could be secured ; 
and while two of the civic guard were employed in taking him, a 
little fellow of about ten years old, who had a banner as heavy 
as himself on his shoulder, and who was probably squire of the 
body to the prisoner, stood on tiptoe before him at the distance 
of a few feet, roaring " Vive la Republique !" as loud as he could 
bawl. 

Another fellow, apparently of the very lowest class, was en- 

* Don't you see that it rains, gentlemen ? That is enough to damp the ardour of our 
republicans. If to-morrow should be a fine day, we shall have our little game again. 



176 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

gaged, during the whole time that the tumult lasted, in haranguing 
a party that he had collected round him. His arms were bare to 
the shoulders, and his gesticulation exceedingly violent. 

" Nous avons des droits !" he exclaimed, with great vehemence 
. . . . " Nous avons des droits ! . . . . Qui est-ce qui veut les nier? 
.... Nous ne demandons que la charte .... Qu'ils nous donnent 
la charte !" . . . .* 

The uproar lasted about three hours, after which the crowd qui- 
etly dispersed ; and it is to be hoped that they may all employ 
themselves honestly in their respective callings, till the next fine 
evening shall again bring them together in the double capacity of 
actors and spectators at the " petit spectacle." 

The constant repetition of this idle riot seems now to give little 
disturbance to any one ; and were it not that the fines and im- 
prisonments so constantly, and sometimes not very leniently, in- 
flicted, evidently show that they are thought worth some attention 
(though, in fact, this system appears to produce no effect whatever 
towards checking the daring demonstrations of disaffection mani- 
fested by the rabble and their newspaper supporters), one might 
deem this indifference the result of such sober confidence of 
strength in the government, as left them no anxiety whatever as 
to any thing which this troublesome faction could achieve. 

Such, I believe, is in fact the feeling of King Philippe's gov- 
ernment : nevertheless, it would certainly conduce greatly to the 
wellbeing of the people of Paris, if such methods were resorted 
to as would effectually and at once put a stop to such disgraceful 
scenes. 

" Liberty and Order" is King Philippe's motto : he could 
only improve it by adding " Repose and Quiet :" for never can 
he reign by any other power than that given by the hope of re- 
pose and tranquillity. The harassed nation looks to him for these 
blessings ; and if it be disappointed, the result must be terrible. 

Louis Philippe is neither Napoleon nor Charles the Tenth. 
He has neither the inalienable rights of the one, nor the overpow- 
ering glory of the other ; but should he be happy enough to dis- 
cover a way of securing to this fine but strife-worn and weary 
country the tranquil prosperity that it now appears beginning to 
enjoy, he may well be considered by the French people as greater 
than either. 

Bold, fearless, wise, and strong must be the hand that at the 
present hour can so wield the sceptre of France ; and I think it 
may reasonably be doubted if any one could so wield it, unless its 
first act were to wave off to a safe distance some of the reckless 
spirits who are ready to lay down their lives on the scaffold — or 

* We have rights ; who will deny that ? We want nothing but the charter— let them 
give us the charter. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 17? 

in a gutter — or over a pan of charcoal, rather than " live peacea-^ 
bly in that state of° hfe unto which it has pleased God to call 
them." 

If King Louis Philippe would undertake a crusade to restore 
independence to Italy, he might convert every traitor into a hero. 
Let him address the army raised for the purpose in the same in- 
spiring words that Napoleon used of yore. " Soldats !.:... 

Partons ! Retablir le capitole Reveiller le peuple romain 

engourdi par plusieurs siecles d'esclavage .... Tel sera le fruit 
de vos victoires. Vous rentrerez alors dans vos foyers, et vos 
concitoyens diront en vous montrant — II etait de I'armee d'lta- 
lie !"* And then let him institute a new order, entitled " L'Ordre 
Imperial de la Redingote grise," or " L'Ordre indomptable des 
Bras croises," and accord to every man the right of admission to 
it, with the honour to boot of having an eagle embroidered on the 
breast of his coat if he conducted himself gallantly and like a 
Frenchman in the field of battle, and we should soon find the Porte 
St. Martin as quiet as the autocrat's dressing-room at St. Peters- 
burgh. 

If such an expedient as this were resorted to, there would no 
longer be any need of that indecent species of safety-valve by 
which the noxious vapour generated by the ill-disposed part of 
the community is now permitted to escape. It may be very great, 
dignified, and high-minded for a king and his ministers to laugh 
at treasonable caricatures and seditious pleasantries of all sorts, — * 
but I do greatly doubt the wisdom of it. Human respect is ne- 
cessary for the maintenance and support of human authority ; and 
that respect will be more profitably shown by a decent degree of 
general external deference, than by the most sublime kindlings of 
individual admiration that ever warmed the heart of a courtier. 
This " avis au lecteur''^ might be listened to with advantage, per- 
haps, in more countries than one. 

Since I last gave you any theatrical news, we have been to see 
Mademoiselle Mars play the part of Henriette in Moli^re's ex- 
quisite comedy of " Les Femmes Savantes ;" and I really think it 
the most surprising exhibition I ever beheld. Having seen her in 
*' TartufFe" and " Charlotte Brown" from a box in the first circle, 
at some distance from the stage, I imagined that the distance had 
a good deal to do with the effect still produced by the grace of 
form, movement, and toilet of this extraordinary woman. 

To ascertain, therefore, how much was delusion and how much 
was truth in the beauty I still saw or fancied, I resolved upon the 
desperate experiment of securing that seat in the balcony which 

* Soldiers, let us go ! To restore the capital — to rouse the people of Rome, bowed 
down for ages under the yoke of bondage. Such will be the fruit of your victories. 
You will then return to your firesides, and your fellow -citizens will exclaim as you pass 
by, He was in the army of Italy. 

M 



178 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

is nearest to the stage. It was from this placjs that I saw her play 
Henriette; a character deriving no, aid whatever from trick or 
stage-effect of any kind ; one, too, whose charm lies wholly in 
simple, unaffected youthfulness : there are no flashes of wit, no 
startling hits either of pathos or pleasantry— nothing but youth, 
gentleness, modesty, and tenderness — nothing but a young girl of 
sixteen, rather more quiet and retiring than usual. Yet this char- 
acter, which seems of necessity to require youth and beauty in 
the performer, though little else, was personated by this miracu- 
lous old lady in a manner that not only enchanted me — being, as I 
am, rococo — but actually drew forth from the omnipotent jeunes 
gens in the parterre such clamorous rapture of applause as must, 
I think, have completely overset an actress less used to it than 
herself. Is not this marvellous ? 

How much it is to be regretted that the art of writing comedy 
has passed away ! They have vaudevilles here — charming things 
in their way ; and we have farces at home that certainly cannot 
be thought of without enjoying the gratification of a broad grin. 
But for comedy, where the intellect is called upon as well as the 
muscles, it is dead and gone. The " Hunchback" is perhaps the 
nearest approach to it, whose birth I remember in our country, 
and " Bertrand and Raton" here ; but in both cases the pleasura- 
ble excitement is produced more by the plot than the characters — 
more by the business of the scene than by the wit and elegance 
of the dialogue, except perhaps in the pretty wilfulness of Julia 
in the second act of the " Hunchback." But even here I suspect 
it was more the playful grace of the enchanting actress who first 
appeared in the part, than any thing in the words " set down for 
her," which so delighted us. 

We do now and then get a new tragedy — witness " Fazio" and 
" Rienzi ;" but comedy — genuine, easy, graceful, flowing, talking 
comedy — is dead : I think she followed Sheridan to the grave and 
was buried with him ! But never is one so conscious of the loss, 
or so inclined to mourn it, as after seeing a comedy of Moliere^s 
of the first order — for his pieces should be divided into classes, 
like diamonds. What a burst of new enjoyment would rush over 
all England, or all France, if a thing like " The School for Scan- 
dal" or " Les Femmes Savantes" were to appear before them \ 

Fancy the delight of sitting to hear wit — wit that one did not 
know by rote, bright, sparkling, untasted as yet by any — new and 
fresh from the living fountain ! — not coming to one in the shape of 
coin, already bearing the lawful stamp of ten thousand plaudits to 
prove it genuine, and to refuse to accept which would be treason ; 
but as native gold, to which the touchstone of your own intellect 
must be applied to test its worth ! Shall we ever experience this ? 

It is strange that the immense mass of material for comedy 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. . 179 

which the passing scenes of this singular epoch furnish should not 
be worked up by some one. Moliere seems not to have suffered 
a single passing folly to escape him. Had he lived in these days, 
what delicious whigs, radicals, " penny-rint" kings, from our side 
of the water — what tragic poets, republicans, and parvenus from 
his own, would he have cheered us withal ! 

Rousseau says, that when a theatre produces pieces which rep- 
resent the real manners of the people, they must greatly assist 
those who are present at them to see and amend what is vicious or 
absurd in themselves, " comme on ote devant un miroir les taches 
de son visage." The idea is excellent ; and surely there never 
was a time when it would be so easy or so useful to put it in prac- 
tice. Would the gods but send a Sheridan to England, and a Mo- 
liere to France, we might yet live to see some of our worst mis- 
fortunes turned to jest, and, like the man choking in a quinsy, 
laugh ourselves into health again. 



LETTER XXXV. 

Soiree dansante — Young Ladies — Old Ladies — Anecdote — The Consolations of Chape- 
rones — Flirtations — Discussion upon the variations between young Married Women in 
France and in England — Making love by deputj' — Not likely to answer in England. 

Last night we were at a ball — or rather, I should say, a " soiree 
dansante ;" for at this season, though people may dance from night 
to morning, there are no balls. But let it be called by what name 
it may, it could not have been more gay and agreeable were this 
the month of January instead of May. 

There were several English gentlemen present, who, to the 
great amusement of some of the company, uniformly selected their 
partners from among the young ladies. This may appear very 
natural to you ; but here it is thought the most unnatural proceed- 
ing possible. 

To a novice in French society, there is certainly no circum- 
stance so remarkable as the different position which the unmarried 
hold in the drawing-rooms of England and les salons of France. 
With us, the prettiest things to look at, and the partners first 
sought for the dance, are the young girls. Brilliant in the perfec- 
tion of their youthful bloom, graceful and gay as young fawns in 
every movement of the most essentially juvenile of all exercises, 
and eclipsing the light elegance of their own toilet by loveliness 
that leaves no eyes to study its decoration — it is they who, in spite 
of diamonds and of blonde, of wedded beauty, or of titled grace, 

M 2 



180 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

ever appear to be the principal actors in a ball-room. But " they 
manage these matters" quite otherwise "in France." 

Unfortunately, it may sometimes happen among us, that a co- 
quettish matron may be seen to lead the giddy waltz with more 
sprightliness than wisdom ; but she always does it at the risk of 
being mat noUe in some way or other, more or less gravely, by al- 
most every person present ; — nay, I would by no means encourage 
her to be very certain that her tonish partner himself would not be 
better pleased to whirl round the mazy circle with one of the slight, 
light, sylph-like creatures he sees flying past him, than with the 
most fashionable married woman in London. 

But in Paris all this is totally reversed ; and, what is strange 
enough, you will find in both countries that the reason assigned for 
the difference between them arises from national attention to good 
morals. 

On entering a French ball-room, instead of seeing the youngest 
and loveliest part of the company occupying the most conspicu- 
ous places, surrounded by the gayest men, and dressed with the 
most studied and becoming elegance, you must look for the young 
things quite in the back-ground, soberly and quietly attired, and 
almost wholly eclipsed behind the more fully-blown beauties of 
their married friends. 

It is really marvellous, considering how very much prettier a 
girl is at eighteen than she can possibly be some dozen years 
afterward, to see how completely fashion will nevertheless have 
its own way, making the worse positively appear the better 
beauty. 

All that exceeding charm and fascination which is for ever and 
always attributed to an elegant French woman, belongs wholly, 
solely, and altogether to her after she becomes a wife. A young 
French girl, ^' parfaitement Men g/e-yee," looks . . . " parfaitement 
bien ^levee ;" but it must be confessed, also, that she looks at the 
same time as if her governess (and a sharp one) were looking 
over her shoulder. She will be dressed, of course, with the 
nicest precision and most exact propriety; her corsets will forbid' 
a wrinkle to appear in her robe, and her friseur deny permission 
to any single hair that might wish to deviate from the station 
appointed for it by his stiff control. But if you would see that 
graceful perfection of the toilet, that unrivalled agacerie of cos- 
tume which distinguishes a French woman from all others in the 
world, you must turn from mademoiselle to madame. The very 
sound of the voice, too, is different. It should seem as if the 
heart and soul of a French girl were asleep, or at least dozing, 
till the ceremony of marriage awakened them. As long as it is 
mademoiselle who speaks, there is something monotonous, dull, 
and uninteresting in the tone, or rather in the tune, of her voice ; 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 181 

but when madame addresses you, all the charm that manner, 
cadence, accent can bestow, is sure to greet you. 
• In England, on the contrary, of all the charms peculiar to 
youthful loveliness, I know none so remarkable as the uncon- 
strained, fresh, natural, sweet, and joyous sound of a young girl's 
voice. It is as delicious as the note of the lark, when rising in 
the first freshness of morning to meet the sun. It is not re- 
strained, held in, and checked into tameness by any fear lest it 
should too early show its siren power. 

Even in the dance itself, the very arena for the display of 
youthful gracefulness, the young French girl fails, when her 
well-taught steps are compared with the easy, careless, fascina- 
ting movements of the married woman. 

In the simple kindness of manner too, which, if there were no 
other attraction, would ever suffice to render an unaffected, good- 
natured young girl charming, there must be here a cautious re- 
straint. A demoiselle Frangaise would be prevented by biense- 
ance from showing it, were she the gentlest-hearted creature 
breathing. 

A young Englishman of my acquaintance, who, though he had 
been a good deal in French society, was not initiated into the 
mysteries of female education, recounted to me the other day an 
adventure of his, which is germane to the matter, though not 
having much to do with our last night's ball. This young man 
had for a long time been very kindly received in a French family, 
had repeatedly dined with them, and, in fact, considered himself 
as admitted to their house on thQ footing of an intimate friend. 

The only child of this family was a daughter, rather pretty, 
but cold, silent, and repulsive in manner — almost awkward, and 
utterly uninteresting. Every attempt to draw her into conversa- 
tion had ever proved abortive ; and though often in her company, 
the Englishman hardly thought she could consider him as an 
acquaintance. 

The young man returned to England ; but, after some months, 
again revisited Paris. While standing one day in earnest con- 
templation of a picture at the Louvre, he was startled at being 
suddenly addressed by an extremely beautiful woman, who in 
the kindest and most friendly manner imaginable asked him a 
multitude of questions — made a thousand inquiries after his 
health — invited him earnestly to come and see her, and concluded 
by exclaiming — " Mais c'est un siecle depuis que je vous ai vu." 
My friend stood gazing at her with equal admiration and sur- 
prise. He began to remember that he had seen her before, but 
when or where he knew not. She saw his embarrassment and 
smiled. " Vous m'avez oublie done ?" said she. " Je m'appelle 
Egle de P .... Mais je suis mariee . . ." 



182 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

But to return to our ball. 

As I saw the married women taken out to dance one after 
another, till at last there was not a single dancing-looking man 
left, I felt myself getting positively angry ; for, notwithstanding 
the assistance given by my ignorant countrymen, there were still 
at least half a dozen French girls unprovided with chevaliers. 

They did not, however, look by many degrees so sadly dis- 
appointed as English girls would do did the same misfortune 
betide them. They, like the poor eels, were used to it ; and the 
gentlemen, too, were cruelly used to the task of torture, — making 
their pretty little feet beat time upon the floor, while they watched 
the happy wedded in pairs — not wedded pairs — swim before their 
eyes in mazes which they would most gladly have thridded after 
them. 

When at length all the married ladies, young and old, were 
duly provided for, several staid and very respectable-looking 
gentlemen emerged from corners and sofas, and presenting them- 
selves to the young expectants, were accepted with quiet, grateful 
smiles, and permitted to lead them to the dance. 

Old ladies like myself, whose fate attaches them to the walls 
of a ball-room, are accustomed to find their consolation and 
amusement from various sources. First, they enjoy such conver- 
sation as they can catch ; or, if they will sit tolerably silent, they 
may often hear the prettiest airs of the season exceedingly well 
played. Then the whole arena of twinkling feet is open to their 
criticism and admiration. Another consolation, and frequently a 
very substantial one, is found in the supper; — nay, sometimes a 
passing ice will be caught to cheer the weary watcher. But there 
is another species of amusement, the general avowal of which 
might lead the younger part of the civilized world to wish that 
old ladies wore blinkers : I allude to the quiet contemplation of 
half a dozen sly flirtations that may be going on around them, — 
some so well managed ! . . . . some so clumsily ! 
! But upon all these occasions in England, though well-behaved 
old ladies will always take especial care not so to see that their 
seeing shall be seen, they still look about them with no feeling of 
restraint — no consciousness that they would rather be anywhere 
else than spectators of what is going forward near them. They 
feel, at least I am sure I do, a very comfortable assurance that the 
fair one is engaged, not in marring, but in making her fortune. 
Here again I may quote the often-quoted, and say, " They manage 
all these matters differently at least, if not better, in France." 

In England, if a wonnan is seen going through all the manoeuvres 
of the flirting exercise, from the first animating reception of the 
" How d'ye do ?" to the last soft consciousness which fixes the 
eyes immoveably on the floor, while the head, gently inclined, 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 183 

seems willing to indulge the happy ear in receiving intoxicating 
draughts of -parfait amour, — when this is seen in England, even 
should the lady be past eighteen, one feels assured that she is not 
married ; but here, without scandal or the shadow of scandal be it 
spoken, one feels equally well assured that she is. She may be 
a widow — or she may flirt in the innocence of her heart, because 
it is the fashion ; but she cannot do it because she is a young 
lady intending to be married. 

I was deeply engaged in these speculations last night, when an 
elderly lady — who, for some reason or other not very easy to 
divine, actually never waltzes — came across the room and placed 
herself by my side. Though she does not waltz, she is a very 
charming person ; and as I had often conversed with her before, I 
now welcomed her approach with great pleasure. 

" A quoi pensez-vous, Madame Trollope ?" said she : " vous 
avez Fair de mediter." 

I deliberated for a moment whether I should venture to tell her 
exactly what was passing in my mind; but as I deliberated, I 
looked at her, and there was that in her countenance which 
assured me I should have no severity to fear if I put her wholly 
in my confidence : I therefore replied very frankly, — 

" I am meditating ; and it is on the position which unmarried 
women hold in France." 

" Unmarried women ? . . . . You will scarcely find any such in 
France," said she. 

" Are not those young ladies who have just finished their quad- 
rille unmarried ?" 

" Ah ! . . . But you cannot call them unmarried women. 'Elles 
sont des demoiselles T 

" Well, then, my meditations were concerning them." 

" Eh bien . . . ." 

" Eh bien ... It appears to me that the ball is not given — that 
the music does not play — that the gentlemen are not empresse, for 
them." 

" No, certainly. It would be quite contrary to our ideas of what 
is right if it were so." 

" With us it is so different ! .... It is always the young ladies 
who are, at least, the ostensible heroines of every ball-room." 

" The ostensible heroines ?" .... She dwelt rather strongly 
upon the adjective, adding, with a smile, — " Our ostensible are 
our real heroines upon these occasions." 

I explained. " The real heroines," said I, " will, I confess, in 
cases of ostentation and display, be sometimes the ladies who give 
balls in return." 

" Well explained," said she, laughing : " I certainly thought 
you had another meaning. You think, then," she continued, "thaJ 



184 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

our young married women are made of too much importance 
among us ?" 

" Oh no !" I replied, eagerly : " it is, in my opinion, almost 
impossible to make them of too much importance ; for I believe 
that it is entirely upon their influence that the tone of society 
depends." 

"You are quite right. It is impossible for those who have 
lived as long as we have in the world to doubt it : but how can 
this be, if, upon the occasions which bring people together, they 
are to be overlooked, while young girls who have as yet no position 
fixed are brought forward instead ?" 

" But surely, being brought forward to dance in a waltz or 
quadrille, is not the sort of consequence which we either of us 
mean ?" 

" Perhaps not ; but it is one of its necessary results. Our 
women marry young, — as soon, in fact, as their education is fin- 
ished, and before they have been permitted to enter the world, or 
share in the pleasures of it. Their destiny, therefore, instead of 
being the brightest that any women enjoy, would be the most 
triste, were they forbidden to enter into the amusements so natu- 
ral to their age and national character, because they were mar- 
ried." 

" But may there not be danger in the custom which throws 
young females, thus early and irrevocably engaged, for the first 
time into the society, and, as it were, upon the attentions of men 
whom it has already become their duty not to consider as too 
amiable ?" 

> " Oh no ! ... If a young woman be well-disposed, it is not a 
quadrille, or a waltz either, that will lead her astray. If it could, 
it would surely be the duty of all the legislators of the earth to 
forbid the exercise for ever." 

" No, no, no !" said I, earnestly ; " I mean nothing of the kind, 
I assure you : on the contrary, I am so convinced, from the recol- 
lections of my own feelings, and my observations on those of oth- 
ers, that dancing is not a fictitious, but a real, natural source of 
enjoyment, the inclination for which is inherent in us, that, instead 
of wishing it to be forbidden, I would, had I the power, make it 
infinitely more general and of more frequent occurrence than it 
is : young people should never meet each other without the pow- 
er of dancing if they wished it." 

" And from this animating pleasure, for which you confess that 
there is a sort of besoin within us, you would exclude all the 
young women above seventeen — because they are married ? . . . 
Poor things ! . . . Instead of finding them so willing as they gen- 
erally are to enter on the busy scenes of life, I think we should 
have great difficulty in getting their permission to ?nonter un menage 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 185 

for them. Marriage would be soon held in abhorrence if such 
were its laws." 

" I would not have them such, I assure you," replied I, rather 
at a loss how to explain myself fully without saying something 
that might either be construed into coarseness of thinking, and a 
cruel misdoubting of innocence, or else into a very uncivil attack 
upon the national manners : I was therefore silent. 

My companion seemed to expect that I should proceed, but after 
a short interval resumed the conversation by saying, — " Then 
what arrangement would you propose, to reconcile the necessity 
of dancing with the propriety of keeping married women out of 
the danger which you seem to imagine might arise from it ?" 

" It would be too national were I to reply, that I think our 
mode of proceeding in this case is exactly what it ought to be." 

" But such is your opinion ?" 

" To speak sincerely, I believe it is," 

*' Will you then have the kindness to explain to me the differ- 
ence in this respect between France and England ?" 

" The only difference between us which I mean to advocate is, 
that with us the amusement which throws young people together 
under circumstances the most likely, perhaps, to elicit expres- 
sions of gallantry and admiration from the men, and a gracious 
reception of them from the women, is considered as befitting the 
single rather than the married part of the community." 

" With us, indeed, it is exactly the reverse," replied she, — '* at 
least as respects the young ladies. By addressing the idle, un- 
meaning gallantry inspired by the dance to a young girl, we should 
deem the cautious delicacy of restraint in which she is enshrined 
transgressed and broken in upon. A young girl should be given 
to her husband before her passions have been awakened or her 
imagination excited by the voice of gallantry." 

" But when she is given to him, do you think this process more 
desirable than before ?" 

" Certainly it is not desirable, but it is infinitely less danger- 
ous. When a girl is first married, her feelings, her thoughts, her 
imagination, are wholly occupied by her husband. Her mode of 
education has ensured this ; and afterward it is at the choice of 
her husband whether he will secure and retain her young heart for 
himself. If he does this, it is not a waltz or quadrille that will 
rob him of it. In no country have husbands so little reason to 
complain of their wives as in France ; for in no country does the 
manner in which they live with them depend so wholly on them- 
selves. With you, if your novels, and even the strange trials 
made public to all the world by your newspapers, may be trusted, 
the very reverse is the case. Previous attachments — early affec- 
tion, broken off before the marriage to be renewed after it — these 



186 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

are the histories we hear and read ; and most assuredly they do 
not tempt us to adopt your system as an amendment upon our own." 

" The very notoriety of the cases to which you allude proves 
their rare occurrence," replied I. " Such sad histories would have 
but little interest for the public, either as tales or trials, if they did 
not relate circumstances marked and apart from ordinary life." 

" Assuredly. But you will allow also, that however rare they 
may be in England, such records of scandal and of- shame are 
rarer still in France ?" 

" Occurrences of the kind do not perhaps produce so much sen- 
sation here," said I. 

" Because they are more common, you would say. Is not that 
your meaning ?" and she smiled reproachfully. 

" It certainly was not my meaning to say so," I replied ; " and^ 
in truth, it is neither a useful nor a gracious occupation to examine 
on which side the Channel the greater proportion of virtue may 
be found ; though it is possible some good might be done on both, 
were the education in each country to be modified by the intro- 
duction of what is best in the other." 

" I have no doubt of it," said she ; " and, as we go on exchang- 
ing fashions so amicably, who knows but we may live to see your 
young ladies shut up a little more, while their mothers and fathers 
look out for a suitable marriage for them, instead of inflicting the 
awkward task upon themselves ? And in return, perhaps, our 
young wives may lay aside their little coquetries, and become 
meres respectables somewhat earlier than they do now. But, in 
truth, they all come to it at last." 

As she finished speaking these words, a new waltz sounded, 
and again a dozen couples, some ill, some well matched, swam 
past us. One of the pairs was composed of a very fine-looking 
young man, with blue-black favoris and moustaches, tall as a 
tower, and seeming, if air and expression may be trusted, very 
tolerably well pleased with himself. His danseuse might unques- 
tionably have addressed her husband, who sat at no great distance 
from us, drawing up his gouty feet under his chair to let her pass, 
in these touching words : — 

" Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round ' 
Neptune's salt wash and Tellus' orbed ground, 
And thirty dozen moons, with borrow'd sheen, 
About the world have times twelve thirties been, 
Since Love our hearts and Hymen did our hands 
Unite commutual in most sacred bands." 

My neighbour and I looked up and exchanged glances as they 
went by. We both laughed. 

" At least you will allow," said she, " that this is one of the 
cases in which a married lady may indulge her passion for the 
dance without danger of consequences ?" 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 187 

" I am not quite sure of that," replied I. "If she be not found 
guilty of sin, she will scarcely obtain a verdict that shall acquit 
her of folly. But what can induce that magnificent personage, 
who looks down upon her as if engaged in measuring the distance 
between them — what could induce him to request the honour of 
enclosing her venerable waist in his arm ?" 

" Nothing more easily explained. That little fair girl sitting in 
yonder corner, with her hair so tightly drawn off her forehead, is 
her daughter — her only daughter, and will have a noble dot. Now 
you understand it ? . . . And tell me, in case his speculation should 
not succeed, is it not better that this excellent lady, who waltzes 
so very like a duck, should receive all the eloquence with which 
iie will seek to render himself amiable, upon her time-steeled 
heart, than that the delicate little girl herself should have to listen 
to it ?" 

" And you really would recommend us to adopt this mode of 
love-making by deputy, letting the mamma be the substitute, till 
the young lady has obtained a brevet to listen to the language of 
love in her own person ? However excellent the scheme may be, 
dear lady, it is vain to hope that we shall ever be able to introduce 
it among us. The young ladies, I suspect, would exclaim, as you 
do here, when explaining why you cannot permit any English in- 
novations among you, " Ce n'est pas dans nos moeurs." 

******* 

I assure you, my friend, that I have not composed this conver- 
sation a loisir for your amusement, for I have set down as nearly 
as possible what was said to me, though I have not quite given it 
all to you; but my letter is already long enough. 



LETTER XXXVl. 

Improvements of Paris — Introduction of Carpets and Trottoirs — Maisonnettes — Not 
likely to answer in Paris — The necessity of a Porter and Porter's Lodge — Comparative 
Expenses of France and England — Increasing Wealth of the Bourgeoisie. 

Among the many recent improvements in Paris which evidently 
owe their origin to England, those which strike the eye first are 
the almost universal introduction of carpets within doors, and the 
frequent blessing of a trottoir without. In a few years, unless all 
paving-stones should be torn up in search of more immortality, 
there can be no doubt that it will be almost as easy to walk in 
Paris as in London. It is true that the old streets are not quite 
wide enough to admit such enormous esplanades on each side as 



188 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Regent and Oxford streets ; but all that is necessary to safety and 
comfort may be obtained with less expense of space ; and to those 
who knew Paris a dozen years ago', when one had to hop from 
stone to stone in the fond hope of escaping wet shoes in the dog- 
days — tormented too during the whole of this anxious process 
with the terror of being run over by carts, fiacres, coucous, cabs, 
and wheelbarrows ; — whoever remembers what it was to walk in 
Paris then, will bless with an humble and grateful spirit the dear 
little pavement which, with the exception of necessary intervals 
to admit of an approach to the portes-cochere of the vstrious ho- 
tels, and a few short intervals besides, which appear to have been 
passed over and forgotten, borders most of the principal streets of 
Paris now. 

Another English innovation, infinitely more important in all 
ways, has been attempted, and has failed. This was the endeav- 
our to introduce maisonnettes, or small houses calculated for the 
occupation of one family. A few such have been built in that 
new part of the town which stretches away in all directions be- 
hind the Madeleine ; but they are not found to answer — and that 
for many reasons which I should have thought it very easy to 
foresee, and which I suspect it would be very difficult to obviate. 

In order to come at all within reach of the generality of French 
incomes, they must be built on too small a scale to have any good 
rooms ; and this is a luxury, and permits a species of display, to 
which many are accustomed who live in unfurnished apartments, 
for which they give perhaps fifteen hundred or two thousand francs 
a year. Another accommodation which habit has made it ex- 
tremely difficult for French families to dispense with, and which 
can be enjoyed at an easy price only by sharing it with many, is 
a porter and a porter's lodge. Active as is the race of domestic 
servants in Paris, their number must, I think, be doubled in many 
families, were the arrangement of the porter's lodge to be changed 
for our system of having a servant summoned every time a parcel, 
a message, a letter, or a visit arrives at the house. 

Nor does the taking charge of these by any means comprise 
the whole duty of this servant of many masters ; neither am I at 
all competent to say exactly what does : but it seems to me that 
the answer I generally receive upon desiring that any thing may 
be done is, " Oui, madame, le portier ou la portiere fera cela ;"* 
and were we suddenly deprived of these factotums, I suspect that 
we should be immediately obliged to leave our apartments and 
take refuge in an hotel, for I should be quite at a loss to know 
what or how many additional " helps" would be necessary to ena- 
ble us to exist without them. 

* Yes, madam, the porter (or the portress) will do that. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 189 

That the whole style and manner of domestic existence 
throughout all the middling classes of such a city as Paris should 
hang upon their porters' lodges, seems tracing great effects to little 
causes ; but I have been so repeatedly told that the failure of the 
maisonnettes has in a great degree arisen from this, that I cannot 
doubt it. 

I know not whether any thing which prevents their so com- 
pletely changing their mode of life as they must do if living in 
separate houses, is to be considered as an evil or not. The Pa- 
risians are a very agreeable, and apparently a very happy popu- 
lation ; and who can say what effect the quiet, steady, orderly 
mode of each man having a small house of his own might pro- 
duce ? What is admirable as a component part of one character, 
is often incongruous and disagreeable when met in another; and 
I am by no means certain that the snug little mansion which might 
be procured for the same rent as a handsome apartment, would 
not tend to circumscribe and tame down the light spirits that now 
send locataires of threescore springing to their elegant premier 
by two stairs at a time. And the prettiest and best chausses little 
feet in the world too, which now trip sans souci over the common 
stair, would they not lag painfully perhaps in passing through a 
low-browed hall, whose neatness or unneatness had become a pri- 
vate and individual concern ? And might not many a bright fancy 
be damped while calculating how much it would cost to have a 
few statues and oleanders in it? — and the head set aching by 
meditating how to get " ce vilain escalier frotte"* from top to bot- 
tom ? Yet all these, and many other cares which they now 
escape, must fall upon them if they give up their apartments for 
maisonnettes. 

The fact, I believe, is, that French fortunes, taken at the average 
at which they at present stand, could not sufl&ce to procure the 
pretty elegance to which the middle classes are accustomed, unless 
it were done by the sacrifice of some portion of that costly fas- 
tidiousness which English people of the same rank seem to cling 
to as part of their prerogative. 

Though I am by no means prepared to say that I should like 
to exchange my long-confirmed habit of living in a house of my 
owii for the Parisian mode of inhabiting apartments, I cannot but 
allow that by this and sundry other arrangements a French income 
is made to contribute infinitely more to the enjoyment of its pos- 
sessor than an English one. 

Let any English person take the trouble of calculating, let his 

revenue be great or small, how much of it is expended in what 

immediately contributes to his personal comfort and luxury, and 

how much of it is devoted to the support of expenses which 

* That abominable staircase scrubbed. 



190 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

in point of fact add to neither, and the truth of this statement will 
become evident. 

Rousseau says, that *' cela se fait," and " cela ne se fait pas," 
are the words which regulate every thing that goes on within the 
walls of Paris, That the same words have at least equal power 
in London can hardly be denied ; and, unfortunately for our 
individual independence, obedience to them costs infinitely more 
on our side of the water than it does on this. Hundreds are 
annually spent, out of very confined incomes, to support expenses 
which have nothing whatever to do with the personal enjoyment 
of those who so tax themselves ; but it must be submitted to, 
because " cela se fait," or " cela ne se fait pas." In Paris, on 
the contrary, this imperative phrase has comparatively no influ- 
ence on the expenditure of any revenue, because every one's object 
is not to make it appear that he is as rich as his neighbour, but to 
make his means, be -they great or small, contribute as much as 
possible to the enjoyment and embellishment of his existence. 

It is for this reason that a residence in Paris is found so favour- 
able an expedient in cases of diminished or insufficient fortune. 
A family coming hither in the hope of obtaining the mere neces- 
saries of life at a much cheaper rate than in England would be 
greatly disappointed: some articles are cheaper, but many are 
considerably dearer; and, in truth, I doubt if at the present 
moment any thing that can be strictly denominated a necessary of 
life is to be found cheaper in Paris than in London. 

It is not the necessaries, but the luxuries of life, that are cheaper 
here. Wine, ornamental furniture, the keep of horses, the price 
of carriages, the entrance to theatres, wax-lights, fruit, books, the 
rent of handsome apartments, the wages of men-servants, are all 
greatly cheaper, and direct taxes greatly less. But even this is 
not the chief reason why a residence in Paris may be found 
economical to persons of any pretension to rank or style at home. 
The necessity for parade, so much the most costly of all the 
appendages to rank, may here he greatly dispensed with, and that 
without any degradation whatever. In short, the advantage of 
living in Paris as a matter of economy depends entirely upon the 
degree of luxury to be obtained. There are certainly many points 
of delicacy and refinement in the English manner of living which 
I should be very sorry to see given up as national peculiarities ; 
but I think we should gain much in many ways could we learn to 
hang our consequence less upon the comparison of what others 
do. We shudder at the cruel madness of the tyrant who would 
force every form to reach one standard ; but those are hardly less 
mad who insist that every one, to live comme il faut, must live, 
or appear to live, exactly as others do, though the means of doing 
so may vary among the silly set so prescribed to, from an income 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, ■ 191 

that may justify any extravagance to one that can honestly supply 
none. 

This is a folly of incalculably rarer occurrence here than in 
England ; and it certainly is no proof of the good sense of our 
" most thinking people," that for one private family brought to ruin 
by extravagance in France, there are fifty who suffer from this 
cause in England. 

It is easy to perceive that our great wealth has been the cause 
of this. The general scale of expense has been set so high, that 
thousands who have lived in reference to that, rather than to their 
individual fortunes, have been ruined by the blunder ; and I really 
know no remedy so likely to cure the evil as a residence in Paris ; 
not, however, so much as a means of saving money, as of making 
a series of experiments which may teach them how to make the 
best and most enjoyable use of it. 

I am persuaded, that if it were to become as much the fashion 
to imitate the French independence of mind in our style of living, 
as it now is to copy them in ragouts, bonnets, mustaches, and 
or-molu, we should greatly increase our stock of real genuine 
enjoyment. If no English lady should ever again feel a pang at 
her heart because she saw more tall footmen in her neighbour's 
hall than in her own — if no sighs were breathed in secret in any 
club-house or at any sale, because Jack Somebody's stud was a 
cut above us — if no bills were run up at Gunter's, or at Howell 
and .James's, because it was worse than death to be outdone, — we 
should unquestionably be a happier and a more respectable people 
than we are at present. 

It is, I believe, pretty generally acknowledged by all parties, 
that the citizens of France have become a more money-getting gen- 
eration since the last revolution than they ever were before it. 
The security and repose which the new dynasty seems to have 
brought with it, have already given them time and opportunity to 
multiply their capital ; and the consequence is, that the shopkeep- 
ing propensities with which Napoleon used to reproach us have 
crossed the channel, and are beginning to produce very consider- 
able alterations here. 

It is evident that the wealth of the bourgeoisie is rapidly in- 
creasing, and their consequence with it ; so rapidly, indeed, that 
the republicans are taking fright at it — they see before them a new 
enemy, and begin to talk of the abominations of an aristocratic 
bourgeoisie. ""~ 

There is, in fact, no circumstance in the whole aspect of the 
country more striking or more favourable than this new and power- 
ful impulse given to trade. It is the best ballast that the vessel of 
the state can have ; and if they can but contrive that nothing shall 



192 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

happen to occasion its being thrown overboard, it may suffice to 
keep her steady, whatever winds may blow. 

The wide-spreading effect of this increasing weahh among the 
bourgeoisie is visible in many ways, but in none more than in the 
rapid increase of handsome dwellings, which are springing up, as 
white and bright as newborn mushrooms, in the northwestern divis- 
ion of Paris. This is quite a new world, and reminds me of the 
early days of Russell Square, and all the region about ' it. The 
Church of the Madeleine, instead of being, as I formerly remember 
it, nearly at the extremity of Paris, has now a new city behind it ; 
and if things go on at the same rate at which they seem to be ad- 
vancing at present, we shall see it, or at least our children will, 
occupying as central a position as St. Martin's-in-the-Fields. An 
excellent market, called Marche de la Madeleine, has already found 
its way to this new town ; and I doubt not that churches, theatres, 
and restaurans innumerable will speedily follow. 

The capital which is now going so merrily on, increasing with al- 
most American rapidity, will soon ask to be invested ; and when this 
happens, Paris will be seen running out of town with the same 
active pace that London has done before her ; and twenty years 
hence the Bois de Boulogne may very likely be as thickly peopled 
as the Regent's Park is now. 

This sudden accession of wealth has already become the cause 
of a great increase in the price of almost every article sold in 
Paris ; and if this activity of commerce continue, it is more than 
probable that the hitherto moderate fortunes of the Parisian bour- 
sier and merchant will grow into something resembling the colossal 
capitals of England, and" we shall find that the same causes which 
have hitherto made England dear will in future prevent France 
from being cheap. It will then happen, that many deficiencies 
which are now perceptible, and which furnish the most remarkable 
points of difference between the two countries, will disappear; 
great wealth being in many instances all that is required to make 
a French family live very much like an English one. Whether 
they will not, when this time arrives, lose on the side of unostenta- 
tious enjoyment more than they will gain by increased splendour, 
may, I think, be very doubtful. For my own part, I am decidedly 
of opinion, that as soon as heavy ceremonious dinners shall syste- 
matically take place of the present easy, unexpensive style of vis- 
iting, Paris will be more than half spoiled, and the English may 
make up their minds to remain proudly and pompously at home, 
lest, instead of a light and lively contrast to their own ways, they 
may chance to find a heavy but successful rivalry. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 193 



LETTER XXXVIL 

Horrible Murder — La Morgue — Suicides — Vanity — Anecdote — Influence of Modem Lit- 
erature — Different appearance of Poverty in France and England. 

We have been made positively sick and miserable by the de- 
tails of a murder, which seems to shovjr that we live in a world 
where there are creatures ten thousand times more savage than 
any beast that ranges the forest, 

" Be it ounce, -or cat, or bear, 
Pard, or boar with bristled hair." 

This horror was perpetrated on the person of a wretched female, 
who appeared, by the mangled remains which were found in the 
river, to have been very young. But though thus much was dis- 
covered, it was many days ere, among the thousands who flocked 
to the Morgue to look at the severed head and mangled limbs, any 
one could be found to recognise the features. At length, however, 
the person with whom she had lodged came to see if she could 
trace any resemblance between her lost inmate and these wretch- 
ed relics of a human being. 

She so far succeeded as to convince herself of the identity; 
though her means of judging appeared to be so little satisfactory, 
that few placed any reliance upon her testimony. Nevertheless, 
she at length succeeded in having a man taken up, who had lived 
on intimate terms with the poor creature whose sudden disap- 
pearance had induced this woman to visit the Morgue when tihe 
description of this mangled body reached her. He immediately 
confessed the deed, in the spirit, though not in the words, of the 
poet : — 

" Mourons : de tant d'horreurs qu'un trepas me d61ivre ! 
Est-ce un malheur si grand que de cesser de vivre ? 

* * * * 

. Je ne crains pas le nom que je laisse apr^s moi." 

The peculiarly horrid manner in which the crime was com- 
mitted, and the audacious style in which the criminal appears to 
brave justice, will, it is thought, prevent any extenuating circum- 
stances being pleaded, as is usually done, for the purpose of com- 
muting the punishment of death into imprisonment with enforced 
labour. It is generally expected that this atrocious murderer will 
be guillotined, notwithstanding the averseness of the government 
to capital punishment. 

The circumstances are, indeed, hideous in all ways, and the 
more so, from being mixed up with what is miscalled the tender 
passion. The cannibal fury which sets a man to kill his foe that 

N 



194 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

he may eat him, has fully as much tenderness in it as this species 
of affection. 

When " the passion is made up of nothing but the finest parts 
of love," it may, perhaps, deserve the epithet of tender ; but we 
have heard of late of so many horrible and deliberate assassina- 
tions, originating in what newspapers are pleased to call " une 
grande passion,'^ that the first idea which a love-story now sug- 
gests to me is, that the sequel will in all probability be murder 
" most foul, strange, and unnatural !" 

Is there in any language a word that can raise so many shud- 
dering sensations as " La Morgue ?" Hatred, revenge, murder, 
are each terrible ; but La Morgue outdoes them all in its power 
of bringing together in one syllable the abstract of whatever is 
most appalling in crime, poverty, despair, and death. 

To the ghastly Morgue are conveyed the unowned dead of 
every description that are discovered in or near Paris. The Seine 
is the great receptacle which first receives the victims of assassi- 
nation or despair ; but they are not long permitted to elude the 
vigilance of the Parisian police : a huge net, stretched across the 
river at St. Cloud, receives and retains whatever the stream brings 
down ; and any thing that retains a trace of human form which is 
found amid the product of the fearful draught is daily conveyed to 
La Morgue ; — daily ; for rarely does it chance that for four-and- 
twenty hours its melancholy biers remain unoccupied ; often do 
eight, ten, a dozen corpses at a time arrive by the frightful caravan 
from " les filets de St. Cloud" 

I have, in common with most people, I believe, a very strong 
propensity within me for seeing every thing connected directly or 
indirectly with any subject or event which has strongly roused my 
curiosity, or interested my feelings ; but, strange to say, I never 
feel its influence so irresistible as when something of shuddering 
horror is mixed with the spectacle. It is this propensity which 
has now induced me to visit this citadel of death ; — this low and 
solitary roof, placed in the very centre of moving, living, laughing 
Paris. 

No visit to a tomb, however solemn or however sad, can ap- 
proach in thrilling horror to the sensation caused by passing the 
threshold of this charnel-house. 

The tomb calls us to the contemplation of the common, the in- 
evitable lot; but this gathering-place of sin and death arouses 
thoughts of all that most outrages nature, and most foully violates 
the sanctuary of life, into which God has breathed his spirit. 
But I was steadfast in my will to visit it, and I have done it. 

The building is a low, square, carefully-whited structure, situ- 
ated on the Quai de la Cite. It is open to all ; and it is fearful 
to think how many anxious hearts have entered, how many de- 
spairing ones have quitted it. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 195 

On entering I found myself in a sort of low hall, which con- 
tained no object whatever. If I mistake not, there is a chamber 
on each side of it ; but it was to the left hand that I was led, and 
it was thither that about a dozen persons who entered at the same 
time either followed or preceded me. I do not too well remember 
how I reached the place where the bodies are visible ; but I know 
that I stood before one of three large windows, through the panes 
of which, and very near to them, lighted also by windows in the 
roof, are seen a range of biers, sloping towards the spectator at 
an angle that gives the countenance as well as the whole figure 
of the persons extended on them fully to view. 

In this manner I saw the bodies of four men stretched out be- 
fore me ; but their aspect bore no resemblance to death — neither 
were they swollen or distorted in any way, but so discoloured as 
to give them exactly the appearance of bronze statues. 

Two out of the four had evidently been murdered, for their 
heads and throats gave frightful evidence of the violence that had 
been practised upon them ; the third was a mere boy, who proba- 
bly met his fate by accident : but that the fourth was a suicide, it 
was hardly possible to doubt ; even in death his features held the 
desperate expression that might best paint the state of mind likely 
to lead to such an act. 

It was past mid-day when we entered the Morgue ; but neither 
of the bodies had yet been claimed or recognised. 

This spectacle naturally set me upon seeking information, wher- 
ever I was likely to find it, respecting the average nUmber of 
bodies thus exposed within the year, the proportion of them be- 
lieved to be suicides, and the causes generally supposed most 
influential in producing this dreadful termination. 

I will not venture to repeat the result of these inquiries in fig- 
ures, as I doubt if the information I received was of that strictly 
accurate kind which could justify my doing so ; yet it was quite 
enough so to excite both horror and astonishment at the extraor- 
dinary number which are calculated to perish annually at Paris by 
self-slaughter. 

In many recent instances, the causes which have led to these 
desperate deeds have been ascertained by the written acknowledg- 
ment of the perpetrators themselves, left as a legacy to mankind. 
Such a legacy might perhaps not be wholly unprofitable to the 
survivers, were it not that the motives assigned, in almost every 
instance where they have been published, have been of so frivo- 
lous and contemptible a nature as to turn wholesome horror to 
most ill-placed mirth. 

It can hardly be doubted, from the testimony of these singular 
documents, that many young Frenchmen perish yearly in this 

N 2 



196 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

guilty and deplorable manner for no other reason in the world than 
the hope of being talked of afterward. 

Had some solitary instance of so perverted a vanity been found 
among these records, it might perhaps have been considered as no 
more incredible than various other proofs of the enfeebling effects 
of this paltry passion on the judgment, and have been set down to 
insanity, produced by excessive egotism : but nothing short of the 
posthumous testimony of the persons themselves could induce any 
one to believe that scarcely a week passes without such an event, 
from such a cause, taking place in Paris. 

In many instances, I am told that the good sense of surviving 
friends has led them to disobey the testamentary instructions left 
by the infatuated young men who have thus acted, requesting that 
the wretched reasonings which have led them to it should be pub- 
lished. But, in a multitude of cases, the " Constitutionnel" and 
other journals of the same stamp have their columns filled with 
reasons why these poor reckless creatures have dared the distant 
justice of their Creator, in the hope that their unmeaning names 
should be echoed through Paris for a day. 

It is not long since two young men — mere youths — entered a 
restaurant, and bespoke a dinner of unusual luxury and expense, 
and afterward arrived punctually at the appointed hour to eat it. 
They did so, apparently with all the zest of youthful appetite and 
youthful glee. They called for champaign, and quaffed it hand 
in hand. No symptom of sadness, thought, or reflection of any 
kind was observed to mix with their mirth, which was loud, long, 
and unremitting. At last came the cafe noir, the cognac, and the 
bill : one of them was seen to point out the amount to the other, 
and then both burst out afresh into violent laughter. Having 
swallowed each his cup of coffee to the dregs, the garcon was 
ordered to request the company of the restaurateur for a few min- 
utes. He came immediately, expecting perhaps to receive his 
bill, minus some extra charge which the jocund but economical 
youths might deem exorbitant. 

Instead of this, however, the elder of the two informed him that 
the dinner had been excellent, which was the more fortunate, as 
it was decidedly the last that either of them should ever eat . that 
for his bill, he must of necessity excuse the payment of it, as in 
fact they neither of them possessed a single sous : that upon no 
other occasion would they thus have violated the customary eti- 
quette between guest and landlord ; but that, finding this world, 
its toils, and its troubles unworthy of them, they had determined 
once more to enjoy a repast of which their poverty must for ever 
prevent the repetition, and then— take leave of existence for ever ! 
For the first part of this resolution, he declared that it had, thanks 
to his cook and his cellar, been achieved nobly ; and for the last. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 197 

it would soon follow— for the cafe noir, besides the little glass of 
his admirable cognac, had been medicated with that which would 
speedily settle all their accounts for them. 

The restaurateur was enraged. He believed no part of the 
rhodomontade but that which declared their inability to discharge 
the bill, and he talked loudly, in his turn, of putting them into the 
hands of the police. At length, however, upon their offering to 
give him their address, he was persuaded to let them depart. 

On the following day, either the hope of obtaining his money, 
or some vague fear that they might have been in earnest in the 
wild tale that they had told him, induced this man to go to the 
address they had left with him ; and he there heard that the two 
unhappy boys had been that morning found lying together hand , 
in hand, on a bed hired a few weeks before by one of them. 
When they were discovered, they were already dead and quite 
cold. 

On a small table in the room lay many written papers, all ex- 
pressing aspirations after greatness that should cost neither labour 
nor care, a profound contempt for those who were satisfied to live 
by the sweat of their brow — sundry quotations from Victor Hugo, 
and a request that their names and the manner of their death 
might be transmitted to the newspapers. 

' Many are the cases recorded of young men, calling themselves 
dear friends, who have thus encouraged each other to make their 
final exit from life, if not with applause, at least with effect. And 
more numerous still are the tales recounted of young men and 
women found dead, and locked in each other's arms ; fulfilling lit- 
erally, and with most sad seriousness, the destiny sketched so 
merrily in the old song : — 

" Gai, gai, marions-nous — 

Mettons-nous dans la misire ; 
Gai, gai, marions-nous — ' 

Mettons-nous la corde an ecu." 

I have heard it remarked by several individuals among those 
who are watching, with no unphilosophical eyes, many ominous 
features of the present time and the present race, or rather, per- 
haps, of that portion of the population which stand apart from the 
rest in dissolute idleness, that the worst of all its threatening indi- 
cations is the reckless, hard indifference, and gladiator-like con- 
tempt of death, which is nurtured, taught, and lauded as at once 
the foundation and perfection of all human wisdom and of all hu- 
man virtue. 

In place of the firmness derived from hope and resignation, 
these unhappy sophists seek courage in desperation, and consola- 
tion in notoriety. With this key to the philosophy of the day, it 
is not difficult to read its influence on many a countenance that 



198 PAKIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

one meets among those who are lounging in listless laziness on 
the boulevards or in the gardens of Paris. 
X^ The aspect of these figures is altogether unlike what we may 
too often see among those who linger, sunken, pale, and hopeless, 
on the benches of our parks, or loiter under porticoes and colon- 
nades, as if waiting for courage to beg. Hunger and intemper- 
ance often leave blended traces on such figures as these, exciting 
at once pity and disgust. I have encountered at Paris nothing 
like this : whether any such exist, I know not ; but if they do, 
their beat is distant from the public walks and fashionable prome- 
nades. Instead of these, however, there is a race who seem to 
live there, less wretched, perhaps, in actual want of bread, but as 
evidently thriftless, homeless, and friendless as the other. On 
the faces of such, one may read a state of mind wholly different, 
— less degraded, but still more perverted : a wild, bold eye, that 
rather seeks than turns from every passing glance — unshrinking 
hardihood, but founded more on indifference than endurance, and 
a scornful sneer for any one who may suffer curiosity to conquer 
disgust, while they fix their eye for a moment upon a figure that 
looks in all ways as if got up to enact the hero of a melodrame. 
Were I the king, or the minister either, I should think it right to 
keep an eye of watchfulness upon all such picturesque individu- 
als ; for one might say most truly, 

" Yon Cassius hath a lean and hungry look ; 
He thinks too much '; such men are dangerous." 

The friend to whom I addressed myself on the subject of these 
constantly-recurring suicides, told me that there was great reason 
to believe that the increase of this crime, so remarkable during the 
last few years, might be almost wholly attributed to the " light lit- 
erature," as it is called, of the period : — dark literature would be 
a fitter name for it. 

The total absence of any thing approaching to a virtuous prin- 
ciple of action in every fictitious character held up to admiration 
throughout all the tales and dramas of the decousu school, while 
every hint of rehgion is banished as if it were treason to allude to 
it, is, in truth, quite enough to account for every species of deprav- 
ity in those who make such characters their study and their model. 
" How oft and by how many shall they be laughed to scorn !" — 
yet believing all the while, poor souls ! that they are producing a 
sensation, and that the eyes of Europe are fixed upon them, not- 
withstanding they once worked as a tailor or a tinker, or at some 
other such unpoetical handiwork ; for they may all be described 
in the words of Ecclesiasticus, with a very slight alteration,— 
^'They would maintain the state of the world, and all their desire 
_ is in (forgetting) the work of their craft." 



Paris and the Parisians. 199 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

Op^ra Comique — " Cheval de Bronze" — " La Marquise" — ImpossibUity of playing 
Tragedy — Mrs. Siddons's Readings — Mademoiselle Mars has equal power — Laisser 
aller of the Female Performers — Dechne of Theatrical Taste among the Fashionable. 

The " Cheval de Bronze" being the spectacle par excellence 
at the Opera Comique this season, we have considered it a matter 
of sight-seeing necessity to pay it a visit ; and we have all agreed 
that it is as perfectly beautiful in its scenery and decorations as 
the size of the theatre would permit. We gazed upon it, indeed, 
with a perfection of contentment, which, in secret committee 
afterward, we confessed did not say much in favour of our intel- 
lectual faculties. 

I really know not how it is that one can sit, not only without 
murmuring, but with positive satisfaction, for three hours together, 
with no other occupation than looking at a collection of gewgaw 
objects, with a most unmeaning crowd, made for the most part by 
nature's journeymen, incessantly undulating among them. Yet 
so it is, that a skilful arrangement of blue and white gauze, aided 
by the magic of many-coloured lights, decidedly the prettiest of 
all modern toys, made us exclaim at every fresh manoeuvre of the 
carpenter, " Beautiful ! beautiful !" with as much delight as ever 
a child of five years old displayed at a firstrate exhibition of 
Punch. 

M. Auber's music had some pretty things in it; but he has 
done much better in days of yore ; and the wretched taste exhibit- 
ed by all the principal singers made me heartily wish that the 
well-appointed orchestra had kept the whole performance to 
themselves. 

Madame Casimir has had, and indeed still has, a rich and 
powerful voice : but the meanest peasant-girl in Germany, who 
trims her vines to the sound of her native airs, might give her a 
lesson on taste more valuable than all that science has ever 
taught her. 

I should like, could I do so with a conscience that should not 
reproach me with exaggeration, to name Miss Stephens and 
Madame Casimir as fair national specimens of English and 
French singing. And in fact they are so ; though I confess that 
the over-dressing of Madame Casimir's airs is almost as much 
out of the common way here, as the chaste simplicity of our 
native siren's strains is with us : yet the one is essentially Eng- 
lish, and the other French. 



200 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

We were told that the manager of our London theatres had 
been in Paris for the purpose of seeing and taking a cast from 
this fine Chinese butterfly. If this be so, Mr. Bunn will find 
great advantage from the extent of his theatre : that of the Opera 
Comique is scarcely of sufficient magnitude to exhibit its gaudy 
but graceful tableaux to advantage. But, on the other hand, I 
doubt if he will find any actress quite so piquante as the pretty 

Madame , in the last act, when she relates to the enchanted 

princess, her mistress, the failure she had made in attempting by 
her agaceries to retain the young female who had ventured into 
the magic region : and if he did, I doubt still more if her per- 
formance would be received with equal applause. 

A petite comedie called " La Marquise" preceded this brilliant 
trifle. The fable must, I think, be taken, though greatly changed, 
from a story of George Sand. It has perhaps little in it worth 
talking about ; but it is a fair specimen of one of that most 
agreeable of French nationalities, a natural, easy, playful little 
piece, at which you may sit and laugh in sympathy with the 
performers as much as with the characters, till you forget that 
there are such things as sorrow and sadness in the world. 

The acting in this style is so very good, that the author's task 
really seems to be the least important part of the business. It is 
not at one theatre, but at all, that we have observed this extraor- 
dinary excellence in the performance of this species of drama ; 
but I doubt if the chasm which seems to surround the tragic 
muse, keeping her apart on a pedestal sacred to recollections, be 
at all wider or more profound in England than in France. In 
truth, it is less impassable with us than it is here ; for though I 
will allow, that our tragic actresses may be no better than those 
of France, seeing that a woman's will in the one case, and the 
Atlantic Ocean in the other, have robbed us of Mrs. Bartley and 
the Fanny — who between them might bring our stage back to all 
its former glory, — still they have neither Charles Kemble nor 
Macready to stand in the place that Talma has left vacant. 

I have indeed no doubt whatever that Mademoiselle Mars 
could read Corneille and Racine as effectively as Mrs. Siddons 
read Shakspeare in the days of Argyle-street luxury, and, like our 
great maga, give to every part a power that it never had before. 
I well remember coming home from one of Mrs. Siddons's read- 
ings with a passionate desire to see her act the part of Hamlet ; 
and from another, quite persuaded that by some means the witch- 
scene in Macbeth should be so arranged that she should speak 
every word of it. 

In like manner, were I to hear Mars read Corneille, I should 
insist upon it that she ought to play the Cid; and if Racine, 
Oreste would probably be the first part I should choose for her. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 201 

But as even she, with all her Garrick-like versatihty, would not 
be able to perforin every part of every play, tragedy must be per- 
mitted to repose for the present in France as well as in England. 

During this interregnum, it is well for them, considering how 
dearly they love to amuse themselves, that they have a stock of 
comedians, old, young, and middle-aged, that they need not fear 
should fail ; for the whole French nation seem gifted with a talent 
that might enable them to supply, at an hour's warning, any de- 
ficiencies in the company. 

I seldom return from an exhibition of this sort without endeav- 
ouring in some degree to analyze the charm that has enchanted 
me : but in most cases this is too light, too subtile, to permit it- 
self to be caught by so matter-of-fact a process. I protest to you, 
that I am often half ashamed of the pleasure I receive from .... 
I know not what.' A playful smile, a speaking glance, a comic 
tone, a pretty gesture, give effect to words that have often nothing 
in them more witty or more wise than may often be met with 
(especially here) in ordinary conversation. But the whole thing 
is so thoroughly understood, from the ' pere noble" to the scene- 
shifter — so perfect in its getting-up — the piece so admirably 
suited to the players, and the players to the piece, — that what- 
ever there is to admire and enjoy, comes to you with no draw 
backs from blunders or awkwardness of any kind. 

That the composition of these happy trifles cannot be a work 
of any great labour or difficulty, may be reasonably inferred from 
the ceaseless succession of novelties which every theatre and 
every season produces. The process, for this lively and ready^ 
witted people, must be pleasant enough — they must catch from 
what passes before them ; no difficult task, perhaps — some pi^ 
quante situation or ludicrous hevue : the slightest thread is strong 
enough to hold together the light materials of the plot ; and then 
must follow the christening of a needful proportion of male and 
female, old and young, enchanting and ridiculous personages. 
The list of these once set down, and the order of scenes which 
are to bring forth the plot arranged, I can fancy the author per-! 
fectly enjoying himself as he puts into the mouth of each charac- 
ter all the saucy impertinences upon every subject that his imagi- 
nation, skilful enough in such matters, can suggest. When to 
this is added an occasional touch of natural feeling, and a little 
popular high-mindedness in any line, the petite comedie is ready 
for the stage. 

It is certainly a very light manufacture, and depends perhaps 
more upon the fearless laisser aller of both author and actor than 
upon the brilliancy of wit which it displays. That oldfashioned 
blushing grace too, so much in favour with King Solomon, and 
called in Scripture phrase shamefacedness, is sacrificed rather too 



202 PARIS AND TME PARISIANS. 

unmercifully by the female part of the performers, in the fear, as 
it should seem, of impairing the spirit and vivacity of the scene 
by any scruple of any kind. But I suspect these ladies miscal- 
culate the respective value of opposing graces ; Mademoiselle 
Mars may show them that delicacy and vivacity are not insepara- 
ble ; and though I confess that it would be a little unreasonable 
to expect all the female vaudevillists of Paris to be like Mars, I 
cannot but think that, in a city where her mode of playing comedy 
has for so many years been declared perfect, it must be unneces- 
sary to seek the power of attraction from what is so utterly at 
variance with it. 

The performance of comedy is often assisted here by a freedom 
among the actors which I have sometimes, but not often, seen 
permitted in London, It requires for its success, and indeed for 
its endurance, that the audience should be perfectly in good-hu- 
mour, and sympathize very cordially with the business of the 
scene. I allude to the part which the performers sometimes take 
not only in the acting, but in the enjoyment of it. I never in my 
life saw people more heartily amused, or disposed more uncere- 
moniously to show it, than the actors in the " Precieuses Ridi- 
cules," which I saw played a few nights ago at the Fran^ais. On 
this occasion I think the spirit of the performance was certainly 
heightened by this license, and for this reason — the scene repre- 
sents a group in which one party must of necessity be exceed- 
ingly amused by the success of the mystification which they are 
practising on the other. But I own that I have sometimes felt a 
little English stiffness at perceiving an air of frolic and fun upon 
the stage, which seemed fully as much got up for the performers 
as for the audience. But though the instance I have named of 
this occurred at the Theatre Fran^ais, it is not there that it is 
likely to be carried to any offensive extent. The lesser theatres 
would in many instances do well to copy closely the etiquette and 
decorum of all kinds which the great national theatre exhibits : 
but perhaps it is hardly fair to expect this ; and besides, we might 
be told, justly enough, to look at home. 

The theatres, particularly the minor ones, appear to be still very 
well attended : but I constantly hear the same observations made 
in Paris as in London upon the decline of theatrical taste among 
the higher orders ; and it arises, I think, from the same cause in 
both countries, — namely, the late dinner-hour, which renders the 
going to a play a matter of general family arrangement, and often 
of general family difficulty. The opera, which is later, is always 
full ; and were it not that I have lived too long in the world to be 
surprised at any thing that the power of fashion could effect, I 
should certainly be astonished that so lively a people as the French 
should throng night after night as they do to endure the exceeding 
dulness of this heavy spectacle. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 203 

The only people I have yet seen enjoying their theatres ration- 
ally, without abstaining from what they liked because it was un- 
fashionable, or enduring what they did not because it was the 
mode, are the Germans, Their genuine and universal love of 
music makes their delicious opera almost a necessary of life to 
them ; and they must, I think, absolutely change their nature be- 
fore they will suffer the silly conventional elegance supposed by 
some to attach to the act of eating their dinner late, to interfere 
with their enjoyment of it. 

I used to think the theatre as dear to the French as music to the 
Germans. But what is a taste in France is, from the firmer fibre 
of the national character, a passion in Germany ; — and it is easier 
to abandon a taste than to control a passion. 

Perhaps, however, in England and France too, if some new- 
born theatrical talent of the first class were to " flame in the fore- 
head of the morning sky," both Paris and London would submit 
to the degradation of dining at five o'clock in order to enjoy it : 
but late hours and indifferent performances together, have gone 
far towards placing the stage among the popular rather than the 
fashionable amusements of either. 



LETTER XXXIX. 

The Abb6 de La Mennais— Cobbett — O'Connell— Napoleon— Robespierre. 

I HAD last night the satisfaction of meeting the Abbe de La 
Mennais at a soiree. It was at the house of Madame Benjamin 
Constant ; whose salon is as celebrated for the talent of every 
kind to be met there, as for the , delightful talents and amiable 
qualities of its mistress. 

In general appearance, this celebrated man recalls an original 
drawing that I remember to have seen of Rousseau. He is greatly 
below the ordinary height, and extremely small in his proportions. 
His countenance is very striking, and singularly indicative of ha- 
bitual meditation ; but the deep-set eye has something very nearly 
approaching to wildness in its rapid glance. His dress was black, 
but had certainly more of republican negligence than priestly dig- 
nity in it ; and the little, tight, checkered cravat which encircled 
his slender throat, gave him decidedly the appearance of a person 
who heeded not either the fashion of the day or the ordinary cos- 
tume of the salon. 

He, in company with four or five other distinguished men, had 



204 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

dined with Madame Constant ; and we found him deep sunk in a 
bergere that almost concealed his diminutive person, surrounded 
by a knot of gentlemen, with whom he was conversing with great 
eagerness and animation. On one side of him was M. Jouy, the 
well-known " Hermite''' of the Chaussee d'Antin ; and on the 
other, a deputy well known on the benches of the coU gauche. 

I was placed immediately opposite to him, and have seldom 
watched the play of a more animated countenance. In the course 
of the evening he was brought up and introduced to me. His 
manners are extremely gentlemanlike ; no stiffness or reserve, 
either rustic or priestly, interfering with their easy vivacity. He 
immediately drew a chair vis-d-vis to the sofa on which I was 
placed, and continued thus, with his back turned to the rest of the 
company, conversing very agreeably, till so many persons col- 
lected round him, many of whom were ladies, that, not feeling 
pleased, I suppose, to sit while they stood, he bowed off, and re- 
treated again to his bergere. 

He told me that he must not remain long in Paris, where he 
was too much in society to do any thing ; that he should speedily 
retreat to the profound seclusion of his native Brittany, and there 
finish the work upon which he was engaged. Whether this work 
be the defence of the prevenus d'Avril, which he has threatened 
to fulminate in a printed form at the head of those who refused to 
let him plead for them in court, I know not ; but this document, 
whenever it appears, is expected to be violent, powerful, and elo- 
quent. 

The writings of the Abbe de La Mennais remind me strongly of 
those of Cobbett — not, certainly, from their matter, nor even from 
the manner of treating it, but from the sort of effect which they 
produce, upon the mind. Had the pen of either of them been 
wholly devoted to the support of a good cause, their writings 
would have been invaluable to society ; for they both have shown 
a singular power of carrying the attention, and almost the judg- 
ment, of the reader along with them, even when writing on sub- 
jects on which he and they were perfectly at issue. 

Were there not circumstances in the literary history of both 
which contradict the notion, I should say that this species of power 
or charm in their writings arose from their being themselves very 
much in earnest in the opinions they were advocating : but as the 
Abbe de La Mennais and the late Mr. Cobbett have both shown 
that their faith in their own opinions was not strong enough to 
prevent them from changing them, the peculiar force of their elo- 
quence can hardly be referred to the sincerity of it. 

I remember hearing a lively young barrister declare that he 
would rather argue against his own judgment than according to it ; 
and I am sure he spoke in all sincerity — much as he would have 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 205 

done had he said that he preferred shooting wild game to slaugh- 
tering tame chickens : the difficulty made the pleasure. But we 
cannot presume to suppose that either of the two persons whose 
names I have so incongruously brought together has written and 
argued on the same principle ; and even if it were so, they have 
not the less changed their minds — unless we suppose that they 
have amused themselves and the public, by sometimes arguing for 
what they believed to be truth, and sometimes only to show their 
skill. 

As to what Mr. Cobbett's principles may really have been, I 
think it is a question that must ever remain in uncertainty — unless 
we adopt that easiest and most intelligible conclusion, that he had 
none at all. But it is far otherwise with M. de La Mennais : it is 
impossible to doubt that in his early writings he was perfectly sin- 
cere ; there is a warmth of faith in them that could proceed from 
no fictitious fire. Nor is it easily to be imagined that he would 
have thrown himself from the height at which he stood in the 
opinion of all whom he most esteemed, had he not fancied that he 
saw truth at the bottom of that abyss of heresy and schism into 
which all good Catholics think that he has thrown himself. 

The wild republicanism which M. de La Mennais has picked up 
in his descent is, however, what has probably injured him most in 
the general estimation. Some few years ago, liberal principles 
were advocated 'by many of the most able as well as the most 
honest men in Europe ; but the unreasonable excesses into which 
the ultras of the parly have fallen, seem to have made the respect- 
able portion of mankind draw back from it, and, whatever their 
speculative opinions may be, they now show themselves anxious 
to rally round all that bears the stamp of order and lawful authority. 

It would be difficult to imagine a worse time for a man to com- 
mence republican and freethinker than the present ; — unless, in- 
deed, he did so in the hope that the loaves and fishes were, or 
would be, at the disposition of that party. Putting, however, all 
hope of being paid for it aside, the period is singularly unpropitious 
for such a conversion. As long as their doctrine remained a 
theory only, it might easily delude many who had more imagina- 
tion than judgment, or more ignorance than either : but so much 
deplorable mischief has arisen before our eyes every time the the- 
ory has been brought to the test of practice, that I believe the 
sound-minded in every land consider their speculations at present 
with as little respect as they would those of a joint-stock company 
proposing to colonize the moon. 

That the Abbe de La Mennais is no longer considered in France 
as the pre-eminent man he has been, is most certain ; and as it is 
easy to trace in his works a regular progression downward, from 
the dignified and enthusiastic Catholic priest to the puzzled skep- 



206 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

tic and factious demagogue, I should not be greatly surprised to 
hear that he, who has been spoken of at Rome as likely to become 
a cardinal, was carrying a scarlet flag through the streets of Paris, 
with a conical hat and a Robespierre waistcoat, singing " Ca ira" 
louder than he ever chanted a mass. 

M. de La Mennais, in common with several other persons of re- 
publican principles with whom I have conversed since I have been 
in Paris, has conceived the idea that England is at this moment 
actually and honci fide under the rule, dictation, and government 
of Mr. Daniel O'Connell. He named him in an accent of the most 
profound admiration and respect, and referred to the English news- 
papers as evidence of the enthusiastic love and veneration in which 
he was held throughout Great Brittain ! 

I waxed wroth, I confess ; but I took wisdom and patience, and 
said very meekly, that he had probably seen only that portion of the 
English papers which were of Mr. Daniel's faction, and that I be- 
lieved Great Britain was still under the dominion of King William 
the Fourth, his lords and commons. It is not many days since I 
met another politician of the same school who went farther still ; 
for he gravely wished me joy of the prospect of emancipation 
which the virtue of the great O'Connell held out to my country. 
On this occasion, being in a gay mood, I laughed heartily, and did 
so with a safe conscience, having no need to set the enhghtened 
propagandist right ; this being done for me, much better than I 
could have done it myself, by a hard-headed doctrinaire who was 
with me. 

" O'Connell is the Napoleon of England," said the republican, 

" Not of England, at any rate," replied the doctrinaire. " And 
if he must have a name borrowed from France, let it be Robes- 
pierre's ; let him be called magnificently the Robespierre of Ire- 
land." 

" He has already been the redeemer of Ireland," rejoined the 
republican, gravely ; " and now he has taken England under his 
protection y 

" And I suspect that ere long England will take him under hers," 
said my friend, laughing. " Hitherto it appears as if the country 
had not thought him worth whipping ; . . . mais si un chien est 
mechant, si meme ce ne serait qu'un vilain petit hargneux, il de- 
vrait etre lie, ou bien pendu."* 

Having finished this oracular sentence, the doctrinaire took a 
long pinch of snuff, and began discoursing of other matters ; and 
I too withdrew from the discussion, persuaded that I could not 
bring it to a better conclusion. 

* But if a dog is savage, though he be nothing more than a contemptible little cur, he 
ought to be shut up or hung. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 207 



LETTER XL. 

Which Party is it ranks second in the estimation of all? — No Caricatures against the 
Exiles — Horror of a Republic. 

I HAVE been taking some pains to discover, by the aid of all 
the signs and tokens of public feeling within my reach, who, 
among the different parties into which this country is divided, en- 
joys the highest degree of general consideration. 

We know that if every man in a town were desired to say who 
among its inhabitants he should consider as fittest to hold an em- 
ployment of honour and profit, each would probably answer, 
" Myself;" we know, also, that should it happen, after the avowal 
of this very natural partiality, that the name of the second best 
were asked for, and that the man named as such by one were so 
named by all, this second best would be accounted by the disin- 
terested lookers-on as decidedly the right and proper person to fill 
the station. According to this rule, the right and proper govern- 
ment for France is neither republican, nor military, nor doctrinaire, 
but that of a legitimate and constitutional monarchy. 

When men hold office, bringing both power and wealth, consid- 
eration will of necessity follow. That the ministers and their 
friends, therefore, should be seen in pride of place, and enjoying 
the dignity they have achieved, is natural, inevitable, and quite as 
it should be. But if, turning from this every-day spectacle, we 
endeavour to discover who, possessing neither power nor place, 
most uniformly receive the homage of respect, I should say, with- 
out a shadow of doubt or misgiving, that they are the legitimate 
royalists. 

The triumphant doctrinaires pass no jokes at their expense ; no 
hons mots are quoted against them, nor does any shop exhibit cari- 
catures either of what they have been or of what they are. 

The republicans are no longer heard to name them, either with 
rancour or disrespect ; all their wrath is now poured out upon the 
present actual power of the prosperous doctrinaires. This, in- 
deed, is in strict conformity to the principle which constitutes the 
foundation of their sect ; namely, that whatever exists ought to be 
overthrown. But neither in jest nor earnest do they now show ' 
hostility to Charles the Tenth or his family : nor even do the blank 
walls of Paris, which, for nearly half a century, have been the fa 
vourite receptacle of all their wit, exhibit any pleasantries, either 
in the shape of hieroglyphic, caricature, or lampoon, alluding to 
them or their cause. 



208 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

I have listened repeatedly to sprightly and to bitter jestings, to 
judicious and to blundering reasonings, for and against the differ- 
ent doctrines which divide the country ; but in no instance do I 
remember to have heard, either in jest or earnest, any revilings 
against the exiled race. A sort of sacred silence seems to en- 
velop this theme ; or, if it be alluded to at all, it is far from being 
in a hostile spirit. 

" Henri !" is a name that, without note or comment, may be 
read qa et Id in every quarter of Paris, that of the Tuileries not 
excepted : and on a wall near the Royal College of Henri Quatre, 
where the younger princes of the house of Orleans still study, 
were inscribed not long ago these very intelligible words : — 

" Pour arriver k Bordeaux, il faut passer par Orleans."* 

In short, whatever feelings of irritation and anger may have 
existed in 1830, and produced the scenes which led to the exile 
of the royal family, they now seem totally to have subsided. 

It does not, however, necessarily follow from this that the ma- 
jority of the people are ready again to hazard their precious tran- 
quillity in order to restore them : on the contrary, it cannot be 
doubted that were such a measure attempted at the present mo- 
ment, it would fail — not from any dislike of their legitimate mon- 
arch, or any affection for the kinsman who has been placed upon 
his throne, but wholly and solely from their wish to enjoy in peace 
their profitable speculations at the Bourse — their flourishing res- 
taurans — their prosperous shops — and even their tables, chairs, 
beds, and coffee-pots. 

Very different, however, is the feeling manifested towards the 
republicans. Never did Napoleon in the days of his most abso- 
lute power, or the descendants of Louis le Grand in those of their 
proudest state, contemplate this factious, restless race with such 
abhorrence as do the doctrinaires of the present hour. It is not 
that they fear them — they have no real cause to do so ; but they 
feel a sentiment made up of hatred and contempt, which never 
seems to repose, and which, if not regulated by wisdom and mod- 
eration, is very likely eventually to lead to more barricades; 
though to none, I imagine, that the National Guards may not easily 
throw down. 

It is on the subject of this unpopular clique that by far the 
greater part of the ever-springing Parisian jokes expends itself; 
though the doctrinaires get it " pas mal" in ipeturn, as I heard a 
national guardsman remark, as we were looking over some carica- 
tures together. But, in truth, the republicans seem upon princi- 
ple to offer themselves as victims and martyrs to the quizzing 
propensities of their countrymen. Harlequin does not more scru- 
pulously adhere to his partycoloured suit, than do the republicans 
* To reach Bordeaux, you must pass by Orleans. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. S09 

of Paris to their burlesque costume. It is, I presume, to show 
their courage, that they so ostentatiously march with their colours 
flying ; but the effect is very ludicrous. The symbolic peculiari- 
ties of their dress are classed and lithographed with infinite fun. 

Drolleries, too, on the parvenus of the empire, are to be found 
for the seeking ; and when they beset King Philippe himself, it 
should seem that it is done with all the enthusiasm so well ex- 
pressed by Garrick in days of yore : — 

" 'Tis for my king, and, zounds ! I'll do my best !" 

The only extraordinary part of all this caricaturing on walls and 
in print-shops, is the license taken with those who have power to 
prevent it. The principle of legislation on this point appears, with 
a little variation, to be that of the old ballad : — 

" Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason 5 
But surely jokes were ne'er endicted treason." 

In speaking of the parties into which France is divided, the 
three grand divisions of Carlists, Doctrinaires, and Republicans 
naturally present themselves first and foremost, and, to foreigners 
in general, appear to contain between them the entire nation : but 
a month or two passed in Paris society suffices to show one that 
there are many who cannot fairly be classed with either. 

In the first place, the Carlist party by no means contains all 
those who disapprove of treating a crown like a ready-made shoe, 
which, if it be found to pinch the person it was intended for, may 
be disposed of to the first comer who is willing to take it. The 
Carlist party, properly so called, demand the restoration of King 
Charles the Tenth, the immediate descendant and representative 
of their long line of kings — the prince who has been crowned and 
anointed King of France, and who, while he remains alive, must 
render the crowning and anointing of any other prince an act of 
sacrilege. Wherefore, in effect, King Louis Philippe has not re-- 
ceived " Ze sacre ;" he is not as yet the anointed King of FrancOj 
whatever he may be hereafter. Henri Quatre is said to have ex^ 
claimed under the walls of the capital, "Paris vaut bien une 
messe ;" and it is probable that Louis Phihppe Premier thinks so 
too ; but hitherto he has been able to have this performed only in 
military style — being incapable, in fact, of going through the cere* 
mony either civilly or religiously. The Carlists are, therefore^ 
those only who en rigueur do not approve of any king but the 
real one. 

The legitimate royaUsts are, I believe, a much more numerous 
party. As strictly attached to the throne and to the principle of 
regular and legitimate succession as the Carlists, they neverthe-^ 
less conceive that the pressure of circumstances may not only 
authorize, but render it imperative upon the country to accept, or 

O 



210 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

rather to permit, the abdication of a sovereign. The king's leav- 
ing the country and placing himself in exile, is one of the few 
causes that can justify this ; and accordingly the abdication of 
Charles Dix is virtual death to him as a sovereign. But though 
this is granted, it does not follow in their creed, that any part of 
the nation have thereupon a right to present the hereditary crown 
to whom they will. The law of succession, they say, is not to be 
violated because the king has fled before a popular insurrection ; 
and, having permitted his abdication, the. next heir becomes king. 
This next heir, however, choosing to follow his royal father's 
example, he too becomes virtually defunct, and his heir succeeds. 

This heir is still an infant, and his remaining in exile cannot 
therefore be interpreted as his own act. Thus, according to the 
reasoning of those who conceive the abdication of the king and the 
dauphin to be acts within their own power, and beyond that of the 
nation to nullify, Henri, the son of the Due de Berri, is beyond all 
doubt Henri Cinq, Roi de France, 

Of this party, however, there are many, and I suspect their 
number is increasing, who, having granted the power of setting 
aside (by his own act) the anointed monarch, are not altogether 
averse to go a step farther, if so doing shall ensure the peace of 
the country ; and considering the infancy of the rightful heir as 
constituting insufficiency, to confess Louis Philippe, as the next 
in succession, to be the lawful as well as the actual King of the 
French. 

It is this party who, I always find, have the most to say in 
support (or defence) of their opinions. Whether this proceed from 
their feeling that some eloquence is necessary to make them pass 
current, or that the conviction of their justice is such as to make 
their hearts overflow on the theme, I know not ; but decidedly the 
sect of the " Parcequ'il est Bourbon'^ is that which I find most 
eager to discourse upon politics. And, to confess the truth, they 
have much to say for themselves, at least on the side of expedi- 
ency. 

It is often a matter of regret with me, that in addressing these 
letters to you I am compelled to devote so large a portion of them 
to politics ; but, in attempting to give you some idea of Paris at 
the present moment, it is impossible to avoid it. Were I to turn 
from this theme, I could only do so by labouring to forget every 
thing I have seen, every thing I see. Go where you will, do what 
you will, meet whom you will, it is out of your power to escape 
it. But observe, that it is wholly for your sake, and not at all for 
my own, that I lament it ; for, however flat and unprofitable my 
report may be, the thing itself, when you are in the midst of it, is 
exceedingly interesting. 

When I first arrived, I was considerably annoyed by finding, 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 211 

that as soon as I had noted down some piece of information as an 
undoubted fact, the next person I conversed with assured me that 
it was worth considerably less than naught ; inasmuch as my 
informer had not only failed to give me useful instruction on the 
point concerning which I was inquiring, but had altogether deluded, 
deceived, and led me astray. 

These days of primitive matter-of-factness are now, however, 
quite passed with me ; and though I receive a vast deal of enter- 
tainment from all, I give my faith in return to very few. I listen 
to the Carlists, the Henri Quintists, the Philippists, with great 
attention and real interest, but have sometimes caught myself 
humming, as soon as they have left me, 

" They were all of them kings in their turn." 

Indeed, if you knew all that happens to me, instead of blaming 
me for being too political, you would be very thankful for the care 
and pains I bestow in endeavouring to make a digest of all I hear 
for your advantage, containing as few contradictions as possible* 
And truly this is no easy matter, not only from the contradictory 
nature of the information I receive, but from some varying weak- 
nesses in my own nature, which sometimes put me in the very 
disagreeable predicament of doubting if what is right be right, and 
if whatsis wrong be wrong. 

When I came here, I was a thorough unequivocating legitima- 
tist, and felt quite ready and willing to buckle on armour against 
any who should doubt that a man once a king was always a king 
— that once crowned according to law, he could not be uncrowned 
according to mob — or that a man's eldest son was his rightful heir. 

But, oh ! these doctrinaires ! They have such a way of proving 
that if they are not quite right, at least everybody else is a great 
deal more wrong ; and then they talk so prettily of England and 
our revolution, and our glorious constitution — and the miseries of 
anarchy — and the advantages of letting things remain quietly as 
they are, till, as I said before, I begin to doubt what is right and 
what is wrong. 

There is one point, however, on which we agree wholly and 
heartily ; and it is this, perhaps, that has been the means of soften- 
ing my heart towards them. The doctrinaires shudder at the 
name of a republic. This is not because their own party is regal, 
but is evidently the result of the experience which they and their 
fathers have had from the tremendous experiment which has once 
already been made in the country. 

" You will never know the full value of your constitution till 
you have lost it," said a doctrinaire to me the other evening, at 
the house of the beautiful Princess B — — , formerly an energetic 
propagandiste, but now a very devoted doctrinaire,-^-" you will 

02 



212 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

never know how beneficial is its influence on every hour of your 
hves, till your Mr. O'Connell has managed to arrange a republic 
for you : and when you have tasted that for about three months, 
you will make good and faithful subjects to the next king that 
Heaven shall bestow upon you. You know how devoted all 
France was to the Emperor, though the police was somewhat 
tight, and the conscriptions heavy : but he had saved us from a 
republic, and we adored him. For a few days, or rather hours, 
we were threatened again, five years ago, by the same terrible 
apparition : the result is, that fou" millions of armed men stand 
ready to protect the prince who chased it. Were it to appear a 
third time — which Heaven forbid ! — you may depend upon it that 
the monarch who should next ascend the throne of France might 
play at lejeu de quilles with his subjects, and no one be found to 
complain." 



LETTER XLI. 

M Dupre — His Drawings in Greece — L'Eglise des Carmes — M. Vinchon's Picture of 
the National Convention — Leopold Robert's Fishermen — Reported cause of his Sui- 
cide — Roman Catholic Religion — Mr. Daniel O'Connell. * 

We went the other morning, with Miss C- , a very agree- 
able countrywoman, who' has, however, passed the greater por- 
tion of her life in Paris, to visit the house and atelier of M. Du- 
pre, a young artist who seems to have devoted himself to the 
study of Greece. Her princes, her peasants, her heavy-eyed 
beauties, and the bright sky that glows above them, — all the 
material of her domestic life, and all the picturesque accompani- 
ments of her classic reminiscences, are brought home by this 
gentleman in a series of spirited and highly-finished drawings, 
which give decidedly the most lively idea of the country that I 
have seen produced. Engravings or lithographs from them are, 
I believe, intended to illustrate a splendid work on this interest- 
ing country which is about to be published. 

In our way from M. Dupre's house, in which was this collec- 
tion of Greek drawings, to his atelier — where he was kind enough 
to show us a large picture recently commenced — we entered that 
fatal ".Eglise des Carmes," where the most hideous massacre of 
the first revolution took place. A large tree that stands beside it 
is pointed out as having been sought as a shelter — alas ! how 
vainly ! — by the unhappy priests, who were shot, sabred, and 
dragged from its branches by dozens. A thousand terrible recol- 
lections are suggested by the interior of the building, aided by 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. S13 

the popular traditions attached to it, unequalled in atrocity even 
in the history of that time of horror. 

Another scene relating to the same period, which, though 
inferior to the massacre of the priests in multiplied barbarity, 
was of sufficient horror to freeze the blood of any but a republi- 
can, has, strange to say, been made, since the revolution of 1830, 
the subject of an enormous picture by M. Vinchon, and at the 
present moment makes part of the exhibition at the Louvre. 

The canvass represents a hall at the Tuileries which in 1795 
was the place where the National Convention sat. The mob has 
broken in, and murdered Feraud, who attempted to oppose them ; 
and the moment chosen by the painter is that in which a certain 
"jeune fille nommee Aspasie MigelW approaches the president's 
chair with the young man's head borne on a pike before her, 
while she triumphantly envelops herself in some part of his 
dress. The whole scene is one of the most terrible revolutionary 
violence. This picture is stated in the catalogue to belong to 
the minister of the interior ; but whether the present minister of 
the interior, or any other, I know not. The subject was given 
immediately after the revolution of 1830, and many artists made 
sketches in competition fof the execution of it. One of those 
who tried, and failed before the superior genius of M. Vinchon, 
told us, that the subject was given at that time as one likely to 
be popular, either for love of the noble resolution with which 
Boissy d'Anglas kept possession of the president's chair, which 
he had seized upon, or else from admiration of the energetic 
female who assisted in doing the work of death. In either case, 
this young artist said, the popularity of such a subject was passed 
by, and no such order would be given now. 

Finding myself again on the subject of pictures, I must men- 
tion a very admirable one which is now being exhibited at the 
" Mairie du Second Arrondissement." It is from the hand of the 
unfortunate Leopold Robert, who destroyed himself at Venice 
almost immediately after he had completed it. The subject is 
the departure of a party of Italian fishermen ; and there are parts 
of the picture fully equal to any thing I have ever seen from the 
pencil of a modern artist. I should have looked at this picture 
with extreme pleasure, had the painter still lived to give hope of, 
perhaps, still higher efforts ; but the history of his death, which I 
had just been listening to, mixed great pain with it. 

I have been told that this young man was of a very religious 
and meditative turn of mind, but a Protestant. His only sister, to 
whom he was much attached, was a Catholic, and had recently 
taken the veil. Her affection for him was such, that she became 
perfectly wretched from the danger she believed awaited him 
from his heresy ; and she commenced a species of affectionate 



214 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

persecution, which, though it failed to convert him, so harassed 
and distracted his mind, as finally to overthrow his reason, and 
lead him to self-destruction. This charming picture is exhibited 
for the benefit of the poor, at the especial desire of the unhappy- 
nun ; who is said, however, to be so perfect a fanatic, as only to 
regret that the dreadful act was not delayed till she had had time to 
work out the salvation of her own soul by a little more persecu- 
tion of his. 

There is something exceedingly curious, and, perhaps, under 
our present lamentable circumstances, somewhat alarming, in the 
young and vigorous after-growth of the Roman Catholic religion, 
which, by the aid of a very little inquiry, may be so easily traced 
throughout France. Were we keeping our own national church 
sacred, and guarded both by love and by law, as it has hitherto 
been from all assaults of the pope and . . . Mr. O'Connell, it could 
only be with pleasure that we should see France recovering from 
her long ague-fit of infidelity, — and, as far as she is concerned, 
we must in Christian charity rejoice, for she is unquestionably 
the better for it ; but there is a regenerated activity among the 
Roman Catholic clergy, which, under existing circumstances, 
makes a Protestant feel rather nervous,— and I declare to you, 1 
never pass within sight of that famous window of the Louvre, 
whence Charles Neuf, with his own royal and catholic hand, dis- 
charged a blunderbuss among the Huguenots, without thinking 
how well a window at Whitehall, already noted in history as a 
scene of horror, might serve King Daniel for the same purpose. 

The great influence which the rehgion of Rome has of late re- 
gained over the minds of the French people, has, I am told, been 
considerably increased by the priests having added to the strength 
derived from their command of pardons and indulgences, that 
which our Methodist preachers gain from the terrors of hell. 
They use the same language, too, respecting regeneration and 
grace ; and, as one means of regaining the hold they had lost 
upon the human mind, they now anathematize all recreations, as 
if their congregations were so many aspirants to the sublime pu- 
rifications of La Trappe, or so many groaning fanatics just made 
over to them from Lady Huntingdon's Chapel. That there is, 
however, a pretty strong force to stem this fresh springtide of 
moon-struck superstition, is very certain. The doctrinaires, I am 
told, taken as a body, are not much addicted to this species of 
weakness. I remember, during the prevalence of that sweeping 
.complaint called the influenza, hearing of a "good lady," of the 
high evangelical clique, who said to some of the numerous pen- 
sioners who flocked to receive the crumbs of her table and the 
precepts of her lips, that she could make up some medicine that 
was very good for all poor people that were seized with this coca^ 
plaint. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 215 

" What can be the difference, ma'am," said the poor body who 

told me this, " between us and Madame C in this illness ? 

Is not what is good for the poor good for the rich too ?" 

The same pertinent question may, I think, be asked in Paris 
just now respecting the medicine called religion. It is adminis- 
tered in large doses to the poor, to which class a great number of 
the fair sex of all ranks happily seem to have joined themselves, — 
intending, at least, to rank themselves as among the poor in spirit; 
nay, parish doctors are regularly paid by authority ; yet, if the 
tale be true, the authorities themselves take little of it. " It is very 
good for poor people ;" but, like the hot-baths which Anstie 
talks of 

" No creature e'er view'd 
Any one of the government gentry stew'd." 

Whether the returning power of this pompous and aspiring 
faith will mount as it proceeds, and embrace within its grasp, as 
it was wont to do, all the great ones of the earth, is a question 
that it may require some years to answer ; but one thing is at 
least certain, — that its ministers will try hard that it shall do so, 
whether they are likely to succeed or not ; and, at the worst, they 
may console themselves by the reflection of Lafontaine : — 

" Si de las gagner je n'emporte pas le prix, 
J'aurais au moins I'honneur de I'avoir entrepris." 

One great one they have certainly already got, besides King 
Charles the Tenth, — even the immortal Daniel ; and however 
little consequence you may be inclined to attach to this fact, it 
cannot be considered as wholly unimportant, since I have heard 
his religious principles and his influence in England alluded to in 
the pulpit here with a tone of hope and triumph which made me 
tremble. 

I heartily wish that some of those who continue to vote in his 
traitorous majority because they are pledged to do so, could hear 
him and his power spoken of here. If they have English hearts, 
it must, I think, give them a pang. 



LETTER XLII. 

Old Maids — Rarely to be found in France — The reasons for this. 

Several years ago, while passing a few weeks in Paris, I had 
a conversation with a Frenchman upon the subject of old maids, 
which, though so long past, I refer to now for the sake of the 
sequel which has just reached me. 



216 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

We were, I well remember, parading in the Gardens of the 
Luxembourg ; and as we paced up and down its long alleys, the 
"miserable fate," as he called it, of single women in England 
was discussed and deplored by my companion as being one of the 
most melancholy results of faulty national manners that could be 
mentioned. 

" I know nothing," said he, with much energy, " that ever gave 
me more pain in society, than seeing, as I did in England, num- 
bers of unhappy women who, however well-born, well-educated, 
or estimable, were without a position, without an etat, and with- 
out a name, excepting one that they would generally give half 
their remaining days to get rid of." 

" I think you somewhat exaggerate the evil," I replied : " but 
even if it were as bad as you state it to be, I see not why single 
ladies should be better off here." 

" Here !" he exclaimed, in a tone of horror : " Do you really 
imagine that in France, where we pride ourselves on making the 
destiny of our women the happiest in the world, — do you really 
imagine that we suffer a set of unhappy, innocent, helpless girls 
to drop, as it were, out of society into the neant of celibacy, as 
you do ? God keep us from such barbarity !" 

" But how can you help it ? It is impossible but that circum- 
stances must arise to keep many of your men single ; and, if the 
numbers be equally balanced, it follows that there must be single 
women too." 

" It may seem so ; but the fact is otherwise : we have no single 
women." 

" What, then, becomes of them ?" 

" I know not ; but were any Frenchwoman to find herself so 
circumstanced, depend upon it she would drown herself." 

" I know one such, however," said a lady who was with us ; 
" Mademoiselle Isabelle B * * * is an old maid." 

" Est-il possible !" cried the gentleman, in a tone that made 
me laugh very heartily. " And how old is she, this unhappy 
Mademoiselle Isabelle ?" 

" I do not know exactly," replied the lady ; " but I think she 
must be considerably past thirty." 

" C'est une horreur !" he exclaimed again ; adding, rather mys- 
teriously, in a half whisper, " Trust me, she will not bear it long !" 
****** 

I had certainly forgotten Mademoiselle Isabelle and all about 
her, when I again met the lady who had named her as the one 
sole existing old maid of France. While conversing with her the 
other day on many things which had passed when we were last 
together, she asked me if I remembered this conversation. I as- 
sured her that I had forgotten no part of it. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 217 

" Well, then," said she, " I must tell you what happened to me 
about three months after it took place. I was invited with my 
hu-sband to pay a visit at the house of a friend in the country, — 
the same house where I had formerly seen the Mademoiselle Isa- 
belle B * * * whom I had named to you. While playing ecart 
with our host in the evening, I recollected our conversation in the 
Gardens of the Luxembourg, and inquired for the lady who had 
been named in it. 

" * Is it possible that you have not heard what has happened to 
her V he replied. 

" ' No, indeed ; I have heard nothing. Is she married, then V 
" ' Married ! . . . . Alas, no ! she has drowned herself /' " 
Terrible as this denouement was, it could not be heard with 
the solemn gravity it called for, after what had been said respect- 
ing her. Was ever coincidence more strange ! My friend told 
me, that on her return to Paris she mentioned this catastrophe to 
the gentleman who had seemed to predict it ; when the informa- 
tion was received by an exclamation quite in character, — " God 
be praised ! then she is out of her misery !" 

This incident, and the conversation which followed upon it, in- 
duced me to inquire in sober earnest what degree of truth there 
might really be in the statement made to us in this well-remem- 
bered conversation ; and it certainly does appear, from all I can 
learn, that the meeting a single woman past thirty is a very rare 
occurrence in France. The arranging un mariage conv enable is 
in fact as necessary and as ordinary a duty in parents towards a 
daughter, as the sending her to nurse or the sending her to school. 
The proposal for such an alliance proceeds quite as frequently 
from the friends of the lady as from those of the gentleman : and 
it is obvious that this must at once very greatly increase the 
chance of a suitable marriage for young women ; for though we 
do occasionally send our daughters to India in the hope of obtain- 
ing this much-desired result, few English parents have as yet 
gone the length of proposing to anybody, or to anybody's son, 
to take their daughter off their hands. 

I have not the least doubt' in the world that, were the custom 
otherwise — were a young lady's claim to an establishment pointed 
out by her friends, instead of being left to be discovered or un- 
discovered as chance will have it, — I have no doubt in the world 
that in such a case many happy marriages might be the result : 
and where such an arrangement infringes on no feeling of pro- 
priety, but is adopted only in conformity to national custom, I can 
well believe that the fair lady herself may deem her having noth- 
ing to do with the business a privilege of infinite importance to 
her delicacy. But would our English girls like, for the satisfac- 
tion of escaping the chance of being an old maid, to give up the 



218 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

dear right of awaiting, in maiden dignity, till they are chosen — 
selected from out the entire world — and then of saying yes or no, 
as may please their fancy best ? 

If I do not greatly mistake the national character of English- 
women, there are very few who could be found to exchange this 
privilege for the most perfect assurance that could be given of ob- 
taining a marriage in any other way. As to which is best and 
which is wisest, or even wrhich is likely to produce, ultimately 
and generally, the most happy menage, I will not pretend to say ; 
because I have heard so much plausible, and, indeed, in some re- 
spects, substantial reasoning in favour of the mode pursued here, 
that I feel it may be considered as doubtful ; but as to which is 
and must be most agreeable to the parties chiefly concerned at the 
time the connexion is formed, herein I own I think there can be 
no question whatever that English men and English women have 
the advantage. 

With all the inclination in the world to believe that France 
abounds with loving, constant, faithful wives, and husbands too, I 
cannot but think that, if they are so, it is in spite of the manner 
in which their marriages are made, and not in consequence of it. 
The strongest argument in favour of their manner of proceeding 
undoubtedly is, that a husband who receives a young wife to- 
tally without impressions of any kind (as a well-brought-up French 
girl certainly is), has a better chance — or rather, has more power 
of making her heart entirely his own, than any man can have that 
falls in love with a beauty of twenty, who may already have heard 
as tender sighs as he can utter breathed in her ear by some one 
who may have had no power to marry her, but who might have 
had a heart to love her and a tongue to win her, as well as himself. 

But against this how much is to be placed ! However dearly a 
Frenchwoman may love her husband, he can never feel that it is 
a love which has selected him ; and though it may sometimes 
happen that a pretty creature is applied for because of her pretti- 
ness, yet, if the application b.e made and answered, and no ques- 
tion asked as to her will or wish in the affair, she can feel but lit- 
tle gratification even to her vanity— and certainly nothing whatever 
approaching to a feeling of tenderness at her heart. 

The force of habit is ever so inveterate, that it is not hkely 
either nation can be really a fair and impartial judge of the other 
in a matter so entirely regulated by it. Therefore, all that I, as 
English, will venture to say farther on the subject is, that I should 
be sorry on this point to see us adopt the fashion of our neighbour 
France. 

I have reason to believe, however, that my friend of the Lux- 
embourg Gardens exaggerated a good deal in his statement re- 
specting the non-existence of single women in France. They do 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 219 

exist here, though certainly in less numbers than in England, — 
but it is not so easy to find them out. With us it is not unusual 
for single ladies to take what is called hrevet rank ; — that is, Miss 
Dorothy Tomkins becomes Mrs. Dorothy Tomkins — and some- 
times tout honnement Mrs. Tomkins, provided there be no collat- 
eral Mrs. Tomkins to interfere with her ; but upon no occasion do 
I remember that any lady in this predicament called herself the 
widow Tomkins, or the widow any thing else. 

Here, however, I am assured that the case is different ; and that, 
let the number of spinsters be great or small, no one but the near 
connexions and most intimate friends of the party know any thing 
of the matter. Many a veuve respectable has never had a husband 
in her life ; and I have heard it positively affirmed, that the secret 
is often so well kept, that the nieces and nephews of a family do 
not know their maiden aunts from their widowed ones. 

This shows, at least, that matrimony is considered here as a 
more honourable state than that of celibacy ; though it does not 
quite go the length of proving that all single women drown them- 
selves. 

But before I quit this subject, I must say a few words to you 
concerning the old maids of England, There are few things 
which chafe my spirit more than hearing single women spoken of 
with contempt because they are such, or seeing them treated with 
less consideration and attention than those who chance to be mar- 
ried. The cruelty and injustice of this must be obvious to every 
one upon a moment's thought ; but to me its absurdity is more ob- 
vious still. 

It is, I believe, a notorious fact, that there is scarcely a woman 
to be found, of any rank under that of a princess of the blood 
royal, who, at the age of fifty, has not at some time or in some 
manner had the power of marrying if she chose it. That many 
who have had this power have been tyrannically or unfortunately 
prevented from using^ it, is certain; but there is nothing either 
ridiculous or contemptible in this. 

Still less does a woman merit scorn if she has had the firmness 
and constancy of purpose to prefer a single life because she has 
considered it best and fittest for her ; in fact, I know nothing more 
high-minded than the doing so. The sneering which follows fe- 
male celibacy is so well known and so coarsely manifested, that it 
shows very considerable dignity of character to enable a woman 
to endure it, rather than act against her sense of what is right. 

I by no means say this by way of running a tilt against all the 
ladies in France who have submitted, hon gre, mal gre, to become 
wives at the command of their fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, and 
guardians : they have done exactly what they ought, and I hope 
all their pretty little quiet-looking daughters will do the same ; it 



220 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

is the custom of the country, and cannot discreetly be departed 
from. But being on the subject, I am led, while defending our 
own modes of proceeding in the important affair of marriage, to 
remark also on the result of them. In permitting a young woman 
to become acquainted with the man who proposes for her before 
she consents to pass her whole life with him, I certainly see some 
advantage ; but in my estimation there is more still in the protec- 
tion which our usage in these matters affords to those who, rather 
than marry a man who is not the object of their choice, prefer re- 
maining single. I confess, too, that I consider the class of single 
women as an extremely important one. Their entire freedom from 
control gives them great power over their time and resources, 
much more than any other woman can possibly possess who is not 
a childless widow. That this power is often — very often — nobly 
used, none can deny who are really and thoroughly acquainted 
with English society ; and if among the class there be some who 
love cards, and tattle, and dress, and slander, they should be treat- 
ed with just the same measure of contempt as the married ladies 
who may also occasionally be found to love cards, and tattle, and 
dress, and slander — but with no more. 

It has been my chance, and I imagine that it has been the 
chance of most other people, to find my dearest and most constant 
friends among single women. Of all the Helenas and Hermias 
that before marriage have sat " upon one cushion, warbling of one 
song," even for years together, how few are there who are not 
severed by marriage ! Kind feelings may be retained, and corre- 
spondence (lazily enough) kept up ; but to whom is it that the anx- 
ious mother, watching beside the sick couch of her child, turns for 
sympathy and consolation ? — certainly not to the occupied and per- 
haps distant wedded confidante of her youthful days, but to her 
maiden sister or her maiden friend. Nor is it only in sickness that 
such friends are among the first blessings of life ; they violate no 
duty by giving their time and their talents to society ; and many 
a day through every house in England has probably owed some of 
its most delightful hours to the presence of those whom no duty has 
called 

" To suckle fools or chronicle small beer," 

and whose talents, therefore, are not only at their own disposal, but 
in all probability much more highly cultivated than any possessed 
by their married friends. 

Thus, spite of him of the Luxembourg, I am most decidedly of 
opinion, that in England at least there is no reason whatever that 
an unmarried woman should consign herself to the fate of the un- 
fortunate Mademoiselle Isabelle. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 221 



LETTER XLIII. 

Peculiar Air of Frenchwomen — Impossibility that an Englishwoman should not be known 
for such in Paris — Small Shops — Beautiful Flowers, and pretty arrangement of them 
— Native Grace — Disappearance of Rouge — Gray Hair — Every article dearer than in 
London — All temptations to smuggUng removed. 

Considering that it is a woman who writes to you, I think you 
will confess that you have no reason to complain of having been 
overwhelmed with the fashions of Paris : perhaps, on the con- 
trary, you may feel rather disposed to grumble because all I have 
hitherto said on the fertile subject of dress has been almost wholly 
devoted to the historic and fanciful costume of the republicans. 
Personal appearance, and all that concerns it, is, however, a very 
important feature in the daily history of this showy city ; and 
although in this respect it has been made the model of the whole 
world, it nevertheless contrives to retain for itself a general look, 
air, and effect, which it is quite in vain for any other people to 
attempt imitating. Go where you will, you see French fashions ; 
but you must go to Paris to see how French people wear them. 

The dome of the Invalides, the towers of Notre Dame, the 
column in the Place Vendome, the windmills of Montmartre, do 
not come home to the mind as more essentially belonging to Paris, 
and Paris only, than does the aspect which caps, bonnets, frills, 
shawls, aprons, belts, buckles, gloves, — and above, though below, 
all things else — which shoes and stockings assume, when worn by 
Parisian women in the city of Paris. 

It is in vain that all the women of the earth come crowding to 
this mart of elegance, each one with money in her sack sufficient 
to cover her from head to foot with all that is richest and best ; — ■ 
it is in vain that she calls to her aid all the tailleuses, coiffeuses, 
modistes, couturieres, cordonniers, lingires, and friseurs in the 
town : all she gets for her pains is, when she has bought, and done, 
and put on all and every thing they have prescribed, that, in the 
next shop she enters, she hears one grisette behind the counter 
mutter to another, " Voyez ce que desire cette dame Anglaise ;"* — 
and that, poor dear lady ! before she has spoken a single word to 
betray herself. 

Neither is it only the natives who find us out so easily — that 
might perhaps be owing to some little inexplicable freemasonry 
among themselves ; but the worst of all is, that we know one 
another in a moment. " There is an Englishman," — " That is an 

* See what this Enghsh lady wants. 



B22 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Englishwoman," is felt at a glance, more rapidly than the tongue 
can speak it. 

That manner, gait, and carriage, — that expression of movement, 
and, if I may so say, of limb, should be at once so remarkable 
and so impossible to imitate, is very singular. It has nothing to 
do M^ith the national differences in eyes and complexion, for the 
effect is felt perhaps more strongly in following than in meeting a 
person ; but it pervades every plait and every pin, every attitude 
and every gesture. 

Could I explain to you what it is which produces this effect, I 
should go far towards removing the impossibility of imitating it : 
but as this is now, after twenty years of trial, pretty generally 
allowed to be impossible, you will not expect it of me. All I can 
do is to tell you of such matters appertaining to dress as are open 
and intelligible to all, without attempting to dive into that very 
occult part of the subject, the effect of it. 

In milliners' phrase, the ladies dress much less in Paris than in 
London. I have no idea that any Frenchwoman, after her morn- 
ing dishabille is thrown aside, would make it a practice, during 
" the season," to change her dress completely four times in the 
course of the day, as 1 have known some ladies do in London. 
Nor do I believe that the most precieuses m such matters among 
them would deem it an insufferable breach of good manners to her 
family, did she sit down to dinner in the same apparel in which 
they had seen her three hours before it. 

The only article of female luxury more generally indulged in 
here than with us, is that of cashmere shawls. One, at the very 
least, of these dainty wrappers, makes a part of every young lady's 
trousseau, and is, I believe, exactly that part of the present which, 
as Miss Edgeworth says, often makes a bride forget the futur. 

In other respects, what is necessary for the wardrobe of a 
French woman of fashion, is necessary also for that of an English 
one ; only jewels and trinkets of all kinds are more frequently 
worn with us than with them. The dress that a young English- 
woman would wear at a dinner-party, is very nearly the same as 
a Frenchwoman would wear at any ball but a fancy one ; whereas 
the most elegant dinner-costume in Paris is exactly the same as 
would be worn at the French opera. 

There are many extremely handsome "magasins de nouveauUs''\ 
in every part of the town, wherein may be found all that the heart 
of woman can desire in the way of dress ; and there are smart 
coiffeuses and modistes too, who know well how to fabricate and 
recommend every production of their fascinating art : but there is 
no Howell and James's wherein to assemble at a given point all the 
fine ladies of Paris ; no reunions of tall footmen are to be seen 
lounging on benches outside the shops, and performing to the 



FARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 223 

uninitiated the office of signs, by giving notice how many pur« 
chasers are at that moment engaged in cheapening the precious 
wares within. The shops in general are very much smaller than 
ours, — or when they stretch into great length, they have uniformly 
the appearance of warehouses. A much less quantity of goods 
of all kinds is displayed for purposes of show and decoration, — 
unless it be in china-shops, or where or-molu ornaments, protected 
by glass covers, form the principal objects : here, or indeed wher- 
ever the articles sold can be exhibited without any danger of loss 
from injury, there is very considerable display ; but, on the whole, 
there is much less appearance of large capital exhibited in the 
shops here than in London. 

One great source of the gay and pretty appearance of the streets, 
is the number and elegant arrangement of the flowers exposed for 
sale. Along all the Boulevards, and in every brilliant Passage 
(with which latter ornamental invention Paris is now thridded in 
all directions), you need only shut your eyes in order to fancy 
yourself in a delicious flower-garden ; and even on opening them 
again, if the delusion vanishes, you have something almost as 
pretty in its place. 

Notwithstanding the multitudinous abominations of their streets 
— the prison-like locks on the doors of their salons, and the odious 
common stair which must be climbed ere one can get to them — 
there is an elegance of taste and love of the graceful about these 
people which is certainly to be found nowhere else. It is not 
confined to the spacious hotels of the rich and great, but may be 
traced through every order and class of society, down to the very 
lowest. 

The manner in which an old barrow-woman will tie up her 
sous' worth of cherries for her urchin customers might give a les- 
son to the most skilful decorator of the supper-table. A bunch 
of wild violets, sold at a price that may come within reach of the 
worst-paid souhrette in Paris, is arranged with a grace that might 
make a dutchess covet them ; and I have seen the paltry stock-in- 
trade of a florist, whose only pavilion was a tree and the blue 
heavens, set off with such felicity in the mixture of colours, and 
the gradations of shape and form, as made me stand to gaze longer 
and more delightedly than I ever did before Flora's own palace in 
the King's Road. 

After all, indeed, I believe that the mystical peculiarity of dress, 
of which I have been speaking, wholly arises from this innate and 
universal instinct of good taste. There is a fitness, a propriety, 
a sort of harmony in the various articles which constitute female 
attire, which may be traced as clearly among the cotton toques, 
with all their variety of brilliant teints, and the 'kerchief and apron 
to match, or rather to accord, as among the most elegant bonnets 



224 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

at the Tuileries. Their expressive phrase of approbation for a 
well-dressed woman, '■'• faite a peindre,^^ may often be applied with 
quite as much justice to the peasant as to the princess ; for the 
same unconscious sensibility of taste will regulate them both. 

It is this national feeling which renders their stage-groups, 
their corps de ballet, and all the tableaux business of their thea- 
tres, so greatly superior to all others. On these occasions, a 
single blunder in colour, contrast, or position, destroys the whole 
harmony, and the whole charm with it : but you see the poor little 
girls hired to do angels and graces for a few sous a night, fall 
into the composition of the scene with an instinct as unerring, as 
that which leads a flight of wild geese to cleave the air in a well- 
adjusted triangular phalanx, instead of scattering themselves to 
every point of the compass ; as, par exemple, o\xt figurantes may 
be often seen to do, if not kept in order by the ballette-master as 
carefully as a huntsman whistles in his pack. 

It is quite a relief to my eyes to find how completely rouge 
appears to be gone out of fashion here. I will not undertake to 
say that no bright eyes still look brighter from having a touch of 
red skilfully applied beneath them : but, if this be done, it is so 
well done as to be invisible, excepting by its favourable effect ; 
which is a prodigious improvement upon the fashion which I well 
remember here, of larding cheeks, both young and old, to a degree 
that was quite frightful. 

Another improvement which I very greatly admire is, that the 
majority of old ladies have left off wearing artificial hair, and 
arrange their own gray locks with all the neatness and care pos- 
sible. The effect of this upon their general appearance is extreme- 
ly favourable : Nature always arranges things for us much better 
than we can do it for ourselves ; and the effect of an old face sur- 
rounded by a maze of wanton curls, black, brown, or flaxen, is 
infinitely less agreeable than when it is seen with its own "sable 
silvered" about it. 

I have heard it observed, and with great justice, that rouge was 
only advantageous to those who did not require it : and the same 
may be said with equal truth of false hair. Some of the towering 
pinnacles of shining jet that I have seen here, certainly have ex- 
ceeded in quantity of hair the possible growth of any one head : 
but when this fabric surmounts a youthful face, which seems to 
have a right to all the flowing honours that the friseur's art can 
contrive to arrange above it, there is nothing incongruous or disa- 
greeable in the effect ; though it is almost a pity, too, to mix any 
thing approaching to deceptive art with the native glories of a 
young head. For which sentiment messieurs les fabricans of false 
hair will not thank me ; — for, having first interdicted the use of 
borrowed tresses to the old ladies, I now pronounce my disapproval 
of them for the young. 




H.ai'per Jv '3!'0iVei-s .',?J6. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 225 

Au resfe, all I can tell you farther respecting dress is, that our 
ladies must no longer expect to find bargains here in any article 
required for the wardrobe ; on the contrary, every thing of the 
kind is become greatly dearer than in London : and what is at 
least equally against making such purchases here is, that the fab- 
rics of various kinds which we used to consider as superior to our 
own, particularly those of silks and gloves, are now, I think, de- 
cidedly inferior ; and such as can be purchased at the same price 
as in England, if they can be found at all, are really too bad to use. 

The only foreign bargains which I long to bring home with me 
are in porcelain : but this our custom-house tariff forbids, and 
very properly ; as, without such protection, our Wedgewoods and 
Mortlakes would sell but few ornamental articles ; for not only 
are their prices higher, but both their material and the fashioning 
of it are in my opinion extremely inferior. It is really very satis- 
factory to one's patriotic feelings to be able to say honestly, that 
excepting in these, and a few other ornamental superfluities, such 
as or-molu and alabaster clocks, et caetera, there is nothing that we 
need to smuggle into our own abounding land. 



LETTER XLIV. 

Exclusive Soirees — Soiree Doctrinaire — Due de Broglie — Soiree Republicaine — Soiile 
Royaliste — Partie Imperiale — Military Greatness — Dame de I'Empire. 

Though the salons of Paris probably show at the present mo- 
ment the most mixed society that can be found mingled together 
in the world, one occasionally finds one's self in the midst of a set 
evidently of one stamp, and indeed proclaiming itself to be so ; 
for wherever this happens, the assembly is considered as peculiarly 
chosen and select, and as having all the dignity of exclusiveness. 

The picture of Paris as it is, may perhaps be better caught at a 
glance at a party collected together without any reference to poli- 
tics or principles of any kind ; but I have been well pleased to 
find myself, on three different occasions, admitted to soirees of the 
exclusive kind. 

At the first of these, I was told the names of most of the com- 
pany by a kind friend who sat near me, and thus became aware 
that I had the honour of being in company with most of King 
Philippe's present ministry. Three or four of these gentlemen 
were introduced to me, and I had the advantage of seeing de pres, 
during their hours of relaxation, the men who have perhaps at 
this moment as heavy a weight of responsibility upon their shoul- 
ders as any set of ministers ever sustained. 

P 



226 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Nevertheless, nothing like gloom, preoccupation, or uneasiness, 
appeared to pervade them ; and yet that chiefest subject of anx- 
iety, the Proces Monstre, was by no means banished from their 
discourse. Their manner of treating it, however, was certainly 
not such as to make one believe that they were at all likely to 
sink under their load, or that they felt in any degree embarrassed 
or distressed by it. 

Some of the extravagances of les accuses were discussed gayly 
enough, and the general tone was that of men who knew per- 
fectly well what they were about, and who found more to laugh 
at than to fear in the opposition anH abuse they encountered. 
This light spirit, however, which to me seemed fair enough in the 
hours of recreation, had better not be displayed on graver occa- 
sions, as it naturally produces exasperation on the part of the 
prisoners, which, however little dangerous it may be to the state, 
is nevertheless a feeling which should not be unnecessarily ex- 
cited. In that amusing paper or magazine — I know not which 
may be its title — called the " Chronique de Paris," I read some 
days ago a letter describing one of the sittings of the Chamber 
of Peers on this proces, in which the gayety manifested by M. de 
Broglie is thus censured : — 

" I have myself been of the number of that privileged public, 
which the accused will not recognise as a public, and was among, 
the spectators on that occasion when the thundering voice of a 
prisoner reading a protest drowned the voice of the ministerial 
functionary, I partook of the excitement of that scene, and I 
could not understand how, amid the general confusion, a man 
holding a station so elevated as that of the Duke de Broglie, 
should be the only one to find in it matter for laughter, while sur- 
veying through his glass the countenance of that true Roman, so 
like the tribunes, who, in the latter days of the republic, made 
the patricians tremble in their curule chairs." 

" Ce vrai i^omaw," however, rather deserved to.be scourged 
than laughed at ; for never did any criminal when brought to the 
bar of his country insult its laws and its rulers more grossly than 
the prisoner Beaune on this occasion. If indeed the accounts 
which reach us by the daily papers are not exaggerated, th^ out- 
rageous conduct of the accused furnishes at every sitting suffi- 
cient cause for anger and indignation, however unworthy it way 
be of inspiring any thing approaching to a feeling of alarm : nnd 
the calm, dignified, and temperate manner in which the Chan-ber 
of Peers has hitherto conducted itself, may serve, I think, a« an 
example to many other legislative assemblies. 

The ministers of Louis Philippe are very fortunate that *he 
mode of trial decided on by them in this troublesome business is 
likely to be carried through by the upper house in a manner «o 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 22T 

little open to reasonable animadversion. The duty, and a most 
harassing one it is, has been laid upon them, as many think, 
illegally; but the task has been imposed by an authority which 
it is their duty to respect, and they have entered upon it in a 
spirit that does them honour. 

The second exclusive party to which I was fortunate enough to 
be admitted, was, in all respects, quite the reverse of the first. 
The fair mistress of the mansion herself assured me that there 
was not a single doctrinaire present. 

Here, too, the eternal subject of the Proces Monstre was dis- 
cussed, but in a very different tone, and with feelings as com- 
pletely as possible in opposition to those which dictated the lively 
and trmmphant sort of persiflage to which I had before listened. 
Nevertheless, the conversation was any thing but triste, as the 
party was, in truth, particularly agreeable ; but, amid flashes of 
wit, sinister sounds that foreboded future revolutions grumbled 
every now and then like distant thunder. Then there were 
shrugging of shoulders, and shaking of heads, and angry taps 
upon the snuff-box; and from time to time, amid the prattle of 
pretty women, and the well-turned gentillesses of those they prat- 
tled to, might be heard such phrases as, " Tout n'est pas encore 
fini" .... " Nous verrons . . . nous verrons" .... " S'lls sent ar- 
bitraires !"* .... and the like. 

The third set was as distinct as may be from the two former. 
This reunion was in the quartier St. Germain ; and, if the feeling 
which I know many would call prejudice does not deceive me, 
the tone of firstrate good society was greatly more conspicuous 
here than at either of the others. By all the most brilliant per- 
sonages who adorned the other two soirees which I have descri- 
bed, I strongly suspect that the most distinguished of this third 
would be classed as rococo ; but they were composed of the real 
stuff that constitutes the true patrician, for all that. Many indeed 
were quite of the old regime, and many others their noble high- 
minded descendants : but whether they were old or young, — 
whether remarkable for having played a distinguished part in the 
scenes that have been, or for sustaining the chivalric principles of 
their race, by quietly withdrawing from the scenes that are, — in 
either case, they had that air of inveterate superiority which I 
believe nothing on earth but gentle blood can give. 

There is a fourth class still, consisting of the dignitaries of the 
Empire, which, if they ever assemble in distinct committee, I 
have yet to become acquainted with. But I suspect that this is 
not the case ; one may perhaps meet them more certainly in some 
houses than in others ; but, unless it be around the dome of the 

* The end is not come yet. — We shall see ; we shall see. — What tyranny ! 

P2 



228 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Invalides, I do not -believe that they are to be found anywhere as 
a class apart. 

Nothing, however, can be less difficult than to trace them: 
they are as easily discerned as a boiled lobster among a pannier 
full of such as are newly caught. 

That amusing little vaudeville called, I think, " La Dame de 
I'Empire," or some such title, contains the best portrait of a 
whole clique, under the features of an individual character, of any 
comedy 1 know. 

None of the stormy billows which have rolled over France 
during the last forty years have thrown up a race so strongly 
marked as those produced by the military era of the Empire. 
The influence of the enormous power which was then in action 
has assuredly in some directions left most noble vestiges. Wher- 
ever science was at work, this power propelled it forward ; and 
ages yet unborn may bless for this the fostering patronage of Na- 
poleon : some midnight of devastation and barbarism must fall 
upon the world before what he has done of this kind can be oblit- 
erated. 

But the same period, while it brought forth from obscurity 
talent and enterprise which, without its influence, would never 
have been greeted by the light of day, brought forward at the 
same time legions of men and women to whom this light and their 
advanced position in society are by no means advantageous in the 
eyes of a passing looker-on. 

I have heard that it requires three generations to make a gen- 
tleman. Those created by Napoleon have not yet fairly reached 
a second ; and, with all respect for talent, industry, and valour be 
it spoken, the necessity of this slow process very frequently forces 
itself upon one's conviction at Paris. 

It is probable that the great refinement of the post-imperial aris- 
tocracy of France may be one reason why the deficiencies of 
those now often found mixed up with them is so remarkable. It 
would be difficult to imagine a contrast in manner more striking 
than that of a lady who would be a fair specimen of the old 
Bourbon noblesse, and a bouncing marSchale of Imperial creation. 
It seems as if every particle of the whole material of which each 
is formed gave evidence of the different birth of the spirit that 
dwells within. The sound of the voice is a contrast ; the glance 
of the eye is a contrast ; the smile is a contrast ; the step is a con- 
trast. Were every feature of a dame de FEmpire and a femme 
noble formed precisely in the same mould, I am quite sure that 
the two would look no more alike than Queen Constance and 
Nell Gwyn. 

Nor is there at all less difference in the two races of gentlemen. 
I speak not of the men of science or of art ; their rank is of an- 



PARIS AND THE TAIlISIANe. 229 

Other kind : but there are still left here and there specimens of 
decorated greatness which look as if they must have been dragged 
out of the guard-room by main force ; huge mustached militaires, 
who look at every slight rebuff as if they were ready to exclaim, 
" Sacre nom de D * * * ! je suis un heros, moi ! Vive I'Empe- 
reur !" 

A good deal is sneeringly said respecting the parvenus fashion- 
ables of the present day : but station, and place, and court favour, 
must at any rate give something of reality to the importance of 
those whom the last movement has brought to the top ; and this 
is vastly less offensive than the empty, vulgar, camp-like reminis- 
cences of Imperial patronage which are occasionally brought for- 
ward by those who may thank their sabre for having cut a path 
for them in the salons of Paris. The really great men of the 
Empire — and there are certainly many of them — have taken care 
to have other claims to distinction attached to their names than 
that of having been dragged out of heaven knows what profound 
obscurity by Napoleon : I may say of such, in the words of the 
soldier in Macbeth — 

" If I say sooth, I must report they were 
As cannon overcharged with double cracks." 

As for the elderly ladies who, from simple little bourgeoises de- 
moiselles, were in those belligerant days sabred and trumpeted into 
marechales and dutchesses, I must think that they make infinitely 
worse figures in a drawing-room than those who, younger in 
years and newer in dignity, have all their blushing honours fresh 
upon them. Besides, in point of fact, the having one Bourbon 
prince instead of another upon the throne, though greatly to be 
lamented from the manner in which it was accomplished, can 
hardly be expected to produce so violent a convulsion among the 
aristocracy of France, as must of necessity have ensued from the 
reign of a soldier of fortune, though the mightiest that ever bore 
arms. 

Many of the noblest races of France still remain wedded to the 
soil that has been for ages native to their name. Towards these 
it -is believed that King Louis Philippe has no very repulsive feel- 
ings ; and, should no farther changes come upon the country — no 
more immortal days arise to push all men from their stools, it is 
probable that the number of these will not diminish in the court 
circles. 

Meanwhile, the haut-ton born during the last revolution must of 
course have an undisputed entree everywhere ; and if by any ex- 
ternal marks they are particularly brought forward to observation, 
it. is only, I think, by a toilet among the ladies more costly and 
less simple than that of their high-born neighbours ; and among 
the gentlemen, by a general air of prosperity and satisfaction, 



230 rARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

with an expression of eye sometimes a little triumphant, often a 
little patronising, and always a little busy. 

It was a dutchess, and no less, who decidedly gave me the most 
perfect idea of an Imperial parvenue that I have ever seen off the 
stage. When a lady of this class attains so very elevated a rank, 
the perils of her false position multiply around her. A quiet 
bourgeoise turned into a noble lady of the third or fourth degree, 
is likely enough to look a little awkward ; but if she has the least 
tact in the world, she may remain tranquil and sans ridicule under 
the honourable shelter of those above her. But when she be- 
comes a dutchess, the chances are terribly against her : "Madame 
la Duchesse" must be conspicuous ; and if in addition to mauvais 
ton she should par malheur be a bel esprit, adding the pretension 
of literature to that of station, it is likely that she will be very re- 
markable indeed. 

My parvenue dutchess is very remarkable indeed. She steps 
out like a corporal carrying a message : her voice is the first, the 
kst, and almost the only thing heard in the salon that she honours 
with her presence, — except it chance, indeed, that she lower her 
tone occasionally to favour with a whisper some gallant decore, 
military, scientific, or artistic, of the same standing as herself; and 
moreover, she promenades her eyes over the company as if she 
had a right to bring them all to roll-call. 

Notwithstanding all this, the lady is certainly a person of tal- 
ent ; and had she happily remained in the station in which both 
herself and her husband were born, she might not, perhaps, have 
tliought it necessary to speak quite so loud, and her bons mots 
would have produced infinitely greater effect. But she is so thor- 
oughly out of place in the grade to which she has been unkindly 
elevated, that it seems as if Napoleon had decided on her fate in 
a humour as spiteful as that of Monsieur Jourdain, when he said — 

"Your daughter shall be a marchioness, in spite of all the 
world j and^ if you provoke me, I'll make her a dutchess." 



1.ETTER XI.V. 

■L'Abb^ Lacordaire — ^^Various statements respecting him — Poetical description of Notre 
Dame — The prophecy of a Roman Catholic — Les Jeunes Gens de Paris — Their om- 
nipotence. 

The great reputation of another preacher induced us on Sun- 
day to endure two hours more of tedious waiting before the mass 
which preceded the sermon began. It is only thus that a chair 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 231 

can be hoped for when the Abbe Lacordaire mounts the pulpit of 
Notre Dame. The penalty is really heavy ; but having heard this 
celebrated person described as one who " appeared sent by Heav- 
en to restore France to Christianity" — as " a hypocrite that set 
Tartuffe immeasurably in the back-ground" — as " a man whose 
talent surpassed that of any preacher since Bossuet" — and as " a 
charlatan who ought to harangue from a tub, instead of from the 
cJiaire de Notre Dame de Paris," — I determined upon at least 
seeing and hearing him, however little I might be able to decide 
on which of the two sides of the prodigious chasm that yawned 
between his friends and enemies the truth was most likely to be 
found. There were, however, several circumstances which les- 
sened the tedium of this long interval : I might go farther, and 
confess that this period was by no means the least profitable of 
the four hours which we passed in the church. 

On entering, we found the whole of the enormous nave railed 
in, as it had been on Easter Sunday for the concert (for so, in 
truth, should that performance be called) ; but, upon applying at 
the entrance to this enclosure, we were told that no ladies^ could 
be admitted to that part of the church — but that the side aisles 
were fully furnished with chairs, and afforded excellent places. 

This arrangement astonished me in many ways : — first, as being 
so perfectly unnational ; for, go where you will in France, you find 
the best places reserved for the women, — at least, this was the 
first instance in which I ever found it otherwise. Next, it aston- 
ished me, because, at every church I had entered, the congrega- 
tions, though , always crowded, had been composed of at least 
twelve women to one man. When, therefore, I looked over the 
barrier upon the close-packed, well-adjusted rows of seats pre- 
pared to receive fifteen hundred persons, I thought that unless all 
the priests in Paris came in person to do honour to their eloquent 
confrere, it was very unlikely that this uncivil arrangement should 
be found necessary. There was no time, however, to waste in 
conjecture ; the crowd already came rushing in at every door, and 
we hastened to secure the best places that the side aisles afford- 
ed. We obtained seats between the pillars immediately opposite 
to the pulpit, and felt well enough contented, having little doubt 
that a voice which had made itself heard so well must have power 
to reach even to the side aisles of Notre Dame. 

The first consolation which I found for my long waiting, after 
placing myself in that attitude of little ease which the straight- 
backed chair allowed, was from the recollection that the interval 
was to be passed within the venerable walls of Notre Dame. It 
is a glorious old church, and though not comparable in any way 
to Westminster Abbey, or to Antwerp, or Strasburg, or Cologne, 
or indeed to many others which I might name, has enough to oc- 



232 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

cupy the eye very satisfactorily for a considerable time. The 
three elegant rose-windows, throwing in their coloured light from 
north, west, and south, are of themselves a very pretty study for 
half an hour or so ; and besides, they brought back, notwithstanding 
their miniature diameter of forty feet, the remembrance of the mag- 
nificent circular western window of Strasburg — the recollection 
of which was almost enough to while away another long interval. 
Then I employed myself, not very successfully, in labouring to 
recollect the quaint old verses which I had fallen upon a few days 
before, giving the dimensions of the church, and which I will 
herewith transcribe for your use and amusement, in case you 
should ever find yourself sitting as I was, holt upright, as we ele- 
gantly express ourselves when describing this ecclesiastical-Paris- 
ian attitude, while waiting the advent of the Abbe Lacordaire. 

" Si tu veux savoir comme est ample 
De Notre Dame le grand temple, 
II y a, dans cEuvre, pour le seur, 
Dix et sept toises de hauteur, 
Sur la largeur de vingt-quatre, 
Et soixante-cinq, sans rebattre, 
^ A de long ; aux tours haut montees 

Trente-quatre sont comptees ; 
Le tout fonde sur pilotis — 
Aussi vrai que je te le dis." 

While repeating this poetical description, you have only to re- 
member that une toise is the same as a fathom, — that is to say, 
six feet; and then, as you turn your head in all directions to look 
about you, you will have the satisfaction of knowing exactly how 
far you can see in each. 

I had another source of amusement, and by no means a trifling 
one, in watching the influx of company. The whole building soon 
contained as many human beings as could be crammed into it ; 
and the seats, which we thought, as we took them, were very so- 
so places indeed, became accommodations for which to be most 
heartily thankful. Not a pillar but supported the backs of as 
many men as could stand round it ; and not a jutting ornament, 
the balustrade of a side altar, or any other " point of 'vantage," but 
looked as if a swarm of bees were beginning to hang upon it. 

But the sight which drew my attention most was that displayed 
by the exclusive central aisle. When told that it was reserved for 
gentlemen, I imagined of course that I should see it filled by a 
collection of staid-looking, middle-aged Catholic citizens, who 
were drawn together from all parts of the town, and perhaps the 
country too, for the purpose of hearing the celebrated preacher : 
but, to my great astonishment, instead of this I saw pouring in by 
dozens at a time, gay, gallant, smart-looking young men, such in- 
deed as I had rarely seen in Paris on any other religious occasion. 
Among these was a sprinkling of older men ; but the great major- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. S33 

ity were decidedly under thirty. The meaning of this phenom- 
enon I could by no means understand ; but while I was torment- 
ing myself to discover some method of obtaining information 
respecting it, accident brought rehef to my curiosity in the shape 
of a communicative neighbour. 

In no place in the world is it so easy, I believe, to enter into 
conversation with strangers as in Paris. There is a courteous in- 
clination to welcome every attempt at doing so which pervades 
all ranks, and any one who wishes it may easily find or make 
opportunities of hearing the opinions of all classes. The present 
time, too, is peculiarly favourable for this ; a careless freedom in 
uttering opinions of all kinds being, I think, the most remarkable 
feature in the manners of Paris at the present day. 

I have heard that it is difficult to get a tame, flat, short, matter- 
of-fact answer from a genuine Irishman ; — from a genuine French- 
man it is impossible : let his reply to a question which seeks in- 
formation contain as little of it as the dry Anglicism " I don't 
know," it is never given without a tone or a turn of phrase that 
not only relieves its inanity, but leaves you with the agreeable 
persuasion that the speaker would he more satisfactory if he could, 
and moreover that he would be extremely happy to reply to any 
farther questions you may wish to ask, either on the same, or any 
other subject whatever. 

It was in consequence of my moving my chair an inch and a 
half to accommodate the long limbs of a gray-headed neighbour, 
that he was induced to follow his " Milles pardons, madame !" with 
an observation on the inconvenience endured on the present occa- 
sion by the appropriation of all the best places to the gentlemen. 
It was quite contrary, he added, to the usual spirit of Parisian ar- 
rangements ; and yet, in fact, it was the only means of preventing 
the ladies suffering from the tremendous rush of jeunes gens who 
constantly came to hear the Abbe Lacordaire. 

" I never saw so large a proportion of young men in any con- 
gregation," said I, hoping he might explain the mystery to me. 
What I heard, however, rather startled than enlightened me. 

" The Catholic religion was never so likely to be spread over 
the whole earth as it is at present," he replied. " The kingdom 
of Ireland will speedily become fully reconciled to the see of 
Rome. Le Sieur O'Connell desires to be canonized. Nothing, 
in truth, remains for that portion of your country to do, but to fol- 
low the example we set during our famous Three Days, and place 
a prince of its own choosing upon the throne." 

I am persuaded that he thought we were Irish Roman Catho- 
lics : our sitting with such exemplary patience to wait for the 
preaching of this new apostle was not, I suppose, to be otherwise 
accounted for. I said nothing to undeceive him, but wishing 



234 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

to bring him back to speak of the congregation before us, I re- 
pHed, 

" Paris at least, if we may judge from the vast crowd collected 
here, is more religious than she has been of late years." 

" France," replied he, with energy, " as you may see by looking 
at this throng, is no longer the France of 1823, when her priests 
sang canticles to the tune of ' Ca ira.^ France is happily be- 
come most deeply and sincerely Catholic. Her priests are once 
more her orators, her magnates, her highest dignitaries. She may 
yet give cardinals to Rome — and Rome may again give a minister 
to France." 

I knew not what to answer : my silence did not seem to please 
him, and I believe he began to suspect he had mistaken the party 
altogether, for after sitting for a few minutes quite silent, he rose 
from the place into which he had pushed himself with consider- 
able difficulty, and making his way through the crowd behind us, 
disappeared ; but I saw him again, before we left the church, 
standing on the steps of the pulpit. 

The chair he left was instantly occupied by another gentleman, 
who had before found standing-room near it. He had probably 
remarked our sociable propensities, for he immediately began 
talking to us. 

" Did you ever see any thing like the fashion which this man has 

obtained ?" said he. " Look at those jeunes gens, madame ! 

might one not fancy one's self at a premiere representation ?" 

" Those must be greatly mistaken," I replied, " who assert that 
the young men of Paris are not among her Jid^es." 

" Do you consider their appearing here a proof that they are 
religious ?" inquired my neighbour, with a smile. 

" Certainly I do, sir," I replied : " how can I interpret it other- 
wise ?" 

" Perhaps not — perhaps to a stranger it must have this appear- 
ance ; but to a man who knows Paris . . ." He smiled again very 
expressively, and, after a short pause, added — " Depend upon it, 
that if a man of equal talent and eloquence with this Abbe Lacor- 
daire were to deliver a weekly discourse in favour of atheism, 
these very identical young men would be present to hear him." 

" Once they might," said I, " from curiosity : but that they 
should follow him, as I understand they do, month after month, if 
what he uttered were at variance with their opinions, seems almost 
inconceivable." 

" And yet it is very certainly the fact," he replied : " whoever 
can contrive to obtain the reputation of talent at Paris, let the 
nature of it be of what kind it may, is quite sure that les jeunes 
gens will resort to hear and see him. They believe themselves 
of indefeisible right the sole arbiters of intellectual reputation ; and 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 235 

let the direction in which it is shown be as foreign as may be to 
their own pursuits, they come as a matter of prescriptive right to 
put their seal upon the aspirant's claim, or to refuse it," 

" Then, at least, they acknowledge that the abbe's words have 
power, or they would not grant their suffrage to him." 

*' They assuredly acknowledge that his words have eloquence ; 
but if, by power, you mean power of conviction or conversion, I 
do assure you that they acknowledge nothing like it. Not only 
do I believe that these young men are themselves skeptics, but I 
do not imagine that there is one in ten of them who has the least 
faith in the abbe's own orthodoxy." 

" But what right have they to doubt it ? . . . . Surely he would 
hardly be permitted to preach at Notre Dame, where the arch- 
bishop himself sits in judgment on him, were he otherwise than 
orthodox ?" 

" I was at school with him," he replied : " he was a fine, sharp- 
witted boy, and gave very early demonstrations of a mind not 
particularly given either to credulity, or subservience to any doc- 
trines that he found puzzling." 

" I should say that this was the greatest proof of his present 
sincerity. He doubted as a boy — but as a man he believes." 

" That is not the way the story goes," said he. " But hark ! 
there is the bell : the mass is about to commence." 

He was right : the organ pealed, the fine chant of the voices 
was heard above it,, and in a few minutes we saw the archbishop 
and his splendid train escorting the Host to its ark upon the altar. 

During the interval between the conclusion of the mass and the 
arrival of the Abbe Lacordaire in the pulpit, my skeptical neigh- 
bour again addressed me. 

" Are you prepared to be very much enchanted by what you are 
going to hear ?" said he. 

"I hardly know what to expect," I replied: "I think my idea 
of the preacher was higher when I came here than since I have 
heard you speak of him." 

" You will find that he has a prodigious flow of words, much 
vehement gesticulation, and a very impassioned manner. This is 
quite sufficient to establish his reputation for eloquence among les 
jeunes gens.^'' 

" But I presume you do not yourself subscribe to the sentence 
pronounced by these young critics ?" 

" Yes, I do, — as far, at least, as to acknowledge that this man 
has not attained his reputation without having displayed great 
ability. But though all the talent of Paris has long consented to 
receive its crown of laurels from the hands of her young men, it 
would be hardly reasonable to expect that their judgment should 
be as profound as their power is great." 



236 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

" Your obedience to this beardless synod is certainly very ex- 
traordinary," said I : " I cannot understand it." 

" I suppose not," said he, laughing ; " it is quite a Paris fash- 
ion ; but we all seem contented that it should be so. If a new 
play appears, its fate must be decided by les jeunes gens ; if a 
picture is exhibited, its rank amid the works of modern art can 
only be settled by them : does a dancer, a singer, an actor, or a 
preacher appear — a new member in the tribune, or a new prince 
upon the throne, — it is still les jeunes gens who must pass judg- 
ment on them all ; and this judgment is quoted with a degree of 
deference utterly inconceivable to a stranger." 

" Chut ! . . . chut !" . . . was at this moment uttered by more 
than one voice near us : " le voila !" I glanced my eye towards 
the pulpit, but it was still empty ; and on looking round me, I 
perceived that all eyes were turned in the direction of a small 
door in the north aisle, almost immediately behind us. " II est 
entre la !" said a young woman near us, in a tone that seemed 
to indicate a feeling deeper than respect, and, in truth, not far re- 
moved from adoration. Her eyes were still earnestly fixed upon 
the door, and continued to be so, as well as those of many others, 
till it reopened, and a slight young man in the dress of a priest 
prepared for the chaire appeared at it. A verger made way for 
him through the crowd, which, thick and closely wedged as it was, 
fell back on each side of him as he proceeded to the pulpit, with 
much more docility than I ever saw produced by the clearing a 
passage through the intervention of a troop of horse. 

Silence the most profound accompanied his progress ; I never 
saw more striking demonstrations of respect : and yet it is said 
that three fourths of Paris believe this man to be a hypocrite. 

As soon as he had reached the pulpit, and while preparing him- 
self by silent prayer for the duty he was about to perform, a 
movement became perceptible at the upper part of the choir ; 
and presently the archbishop and his splendid retinue of clergy 
were seen moving in a body towards that part of the nave which 
is immediately in front of the preacher. On arriving at the space 
reserved for them, each noiselessly dropped into his allotted seat 
according to his place and dignity, while the whole congregation 
respectfully stood to watch the ceremony, and seemed to 

" Admirer un si bel ordre, et reconnaitre I'eglise." 

It is easier to describe to you every thing which preceded the 
sermon, than the sermon itself. This was such a rush of words, 
such a burst and pouring out of passionate declamation, that even 
before I had heard enough to judge of the matter, I felt disposed 
to prejudge the preacher, and to suspect that his discourse would 
have more of tlie flourish and furbelow of human rhetoric than 
of the simplicity of divine truth in it. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 237 

His violent action, too, disgusted me exceedingly. The rapid 
and incessant movement of his hands, sometimes of one, some- 
times of both, more resembled that of the wings of a humming- 
bird than any thing else I can remember : but the lium proceeded 
from the admiring congregation. At every pause he made — and, 
like the claptraps of a bad actor, they were frequent, and evidently 
faits expres — a little gentle laudatory murmur ran through the 
crowd, 

I remember reading somewhere of a priest nobly born, and 
so anxious to keep his flock in their proper place, that they 
might not come " between the wind and his nobility," that his 
constant address to them when preaching was, " Canaille Chre- 
tienne !"* This was bad — very bad, certainly ; but I protest, I 
doubt if the Abbe Lacordaire's manner of addressing his congre- 
gation as " Messieurs" was much less unlike the fitting tone of a 
Christian pastor. This mundane apostrophe was continually re- 
peated throughout the whole discourse, and, I dare say, had its 
share in producing the disagreeable eflfect I experienced from his 
eloquence, I cannot remember having ever heard a preacher I 
less liked, reverenced, and admired, than this new Parisian saint. 
He made very pointed allusions to the reviving state of the Ro- 
man Catholic Church iri Ireland, and anathematized pretty cor- 
dially all such as should oppose it. 

In describing the two hours' prologue to the mass, I forgot to 
mention that many young men — not in the reserved places of the 
centre aisle, but sitting near us, beguiled the tedious interval by 
reading. Some of the volumes they held had the appearance of 
novels from a circulating library, and others were evidently col- 
lections of songs, probably less spiritual than spirituels. 

The whole exhibition certainly showed me a new page in the 
history of Paris as it is, and I therefore do not regret the four 
hours it cost me : but once is enough — I certainly will never go 
to hear the Abbe Lacordaire again. 



LETTER XLVI. 

La Tour de Nesle. 



It is, I believe, nearly two years since the very extraordinary 
drama called " La Tour de Nesle" was sent me to read, as a spe- 
cimen of the outrageous school of dramatic extravagance which 



* Christian rabble. 



238 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

had taken possession of all the theatres in Paris : but I certainly 
did not expect that it would keep its place as a favourite spectacle 
with the people of this great and enlightened capital long enough 
for me to see it, at this distance of time, still played before a very 
crowded audience. 

That this is a national disgrace, is most certain : but the fault is 
less attributable to the want of good taste, than to the lamentable 
blunder which permits every species of vice and abomination to be 
enacted before the eyes of the people, without any restraint or 
check whatever, under the notion that they are thereby permitted 
to enjoy a desirable privilege and a noble freedom. Yet in this 
same country it is illegal to sell a deleterious drug ! There is no 
logic in this. 

It is, however, an undeniable fact, as I think I have before 
stated, that the best class of Parisian society protest against this 
disgusting license, and avoid — upon principle loudly proclaimed 
and avowed — either reading or seeing acted these detestable com- 
positions. Thus, though the crowded audiences constantly as- 
sembled whenever they are brought forward prove but too clearly 
that such persons form but a small minority, their opinion is never- 
theless sufficient, or ought to be so, to save the country from the 
disgrace of admitting that such things are good. 

We seem to pique ourselves greatly on the superiority of our 
taste in these matters ; but let us pique ourselves rather on our 
theatrical censorship. Should the clamours and shoutings of mis- 
rule lead to the abolition of this salutary restraint, the conse- 
quences would, I fear, be such as very soon to rob us of our pres- 
ent privilege of abusing our neighbours on this point. 

While things do remain as they are, however, we may, I think, 
smile a little at such a judgment as Monsieur de Saintfoix passes 
upon our theatrical compositions, when comparing them to those 
of France. 

" The action of our tragedies," says he, " is pathetic and ter- 
rible ; that of the English monstrous. In them the most revolting 
objects are placed before the eyes of the spectator ; a husband, for 
example, who converses cheerfully with his wife, caresses and 
then strangles her." 

Might one not think that the writer of this passage had just ar- 
rived from beholding the famous scene in the " Monomane," only 
he had mistaken it for English ? 

He then proceeds to reason upon the subject, and justly enough, 
I think — only we should read England for France, and France for 
England. 

" It is not to be doubted that the elegant arts can succeed 
among a people, only in proportion as they are made to correspond 
with the tastes and genius of that people, and that a dramatic 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 239 

author cannot hope to please unless the objects and images which 
he presents are analogous to the character, the tastes, and disposi- 
tions of the nation ; it may be inferred, therefore, from the dra- 
matic differences between the two countries, that tire nature of the 
Englishman is gloomy, sanguinary, and ferocious ; and that of the 
Frenchman is lively, impatient, rash, but generous even in its ha- 
tred ; a devoted worshipper of honour" (just like Buridan in this 
same drama of the Tour de Nesle — this popular production of la 
France regeneree) — " a devoted worshipper of honour, and never 
losing sight of its dictates, even amid the greatest violence of the 
passions." 

Though it is impossible to read this passage without a smile, at 
a time when it is so easy for the English to turn the tables against 
this patriotic author, one must sigh too while reflecting on the 
lamentable change which has taken place in the moral feeling of 
revolutionized France since the period at which it was written. 

What would Saintfoix say to the notion that Victor Hugo had 
" heaved the ground from beneath the feet of Corneille and Ra- 
cine V The question, however, is answered by a short sentence 
in his "Essais Historiques," where he thus expresses himself: — 

" I should think the downfall of our nation near at hand, were 
Corneille not regarded as the greatest genius that ever lived." 

If the spirit of the historian were to revisit the earth, and float 
over the heads of a party of Parisian critics while pronouncing 
sentence on his favourite author, he might probably return to the 
shades unharmed, for he would only hear " Rococo ! Rococo I 
Rococo !" uttered as by acclamation ; and, unskilled to compre- 
hend the newborn eloquence, he would doubtless interpret it as a 
refrain to express in one pithy word all reverence, admiration, and 
delight. 

But to return to " La Tour de Nesle." The story is taken from 
a passage in Brantome's history " des Femmes Gallantes," where 
he says, "that a queen of France" — whom, however, he does not 
name, but who is believed to have been Margaret of Burgundy, 
queen of Louis X., — " maintained herself there (in the tower of 
Nesle), and causing all travellers to be seized and brought before 
her, and selecting from among them such as pleased her eye, of 
whatever station they might be, made them her paramours, and after, 
■when she grew tired of them, caused them to be thrown from the 
top of the tower into the water, where they were drowned. 

"I do not avouch that such is the fact," he continues, "but the 
common people, at least in Paris, declare it to be so, and the tale 
is so universally alleged, that if you do but mention the name of 
the tower, they will tell you the story even without being soli- 
cited." 

This story one might imagine was horrible and disgusting 



240 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

enough; but MM. Gaillardet et * * * (it is thus the authors an 
nounce themselves) thought otherwise, and accordingly they have 
introduced her majesty's sisters, the ladies Jeanne and Blanche 
of Burgundy, who were both likewise married to sons of Philippe 
le Bel, the brother of Louis Dix, to share her nocturnal orgies. 
These " imaginative and powerful" scenic historians also, accord- 
ing to the fashion of the day among the theatrical writers of 
France, add incest to increase the interest of the drama. 

This is enough, and too much, as to the plot ; and for the exe- 
cution of it by the authors, I can only say that it is about equal 
in literary merit to the translations of an Italian opera handed 
about at the Haymarket. It is in prose — and, to my judgment, 
very vulgar prose ; yet it is not only constantly acted, but I am 
assured that the sale of it has been prodigiously great, and still 
continues to be so. 

That a fearful and even hateful story, dressed up in all the 
attractive charm of majestic poetry, and redeemed in some sort 
by the noble sentiments of the personages brought into the scenes 
of which it might be the foundation — that a drama so formed 
might captivate the imagination even while it revolted the feel- 
ings, is very possible, very natural, and nowise disgraceful, either 
to the poet or to those whom his talent may lead captive. The 
classic tragedies which long served as models to France abound 
in fables of this description. Alfieri, too, has made use of such, 
following with a poet's wing the steady onward flight of remorse- 
less destiny, yet still sublime in pathos and in dignity, though 
appalling in horror. In like manner, the great French dramatists 
have triumphed by the power of their genius, both over the dis- 
gust inspired by these awful classic mysteries, and the unbending 
strictness of the laws which their antique models enforced for 
their composition. 

If we may herein deem the taste to have been faulty, the grace, 
the majesty, the unswerving dignity of the tragic march through- 
out the whole action — the lofty sentiments, the bursts of noble 
passion, and the fine drapery of stately verse in which the whole 
was clothed, must nevertheless raise our admiration to a degree 
that may perhaps almost compete with what we feel for the 
enchanting wildness and unshackled nature of our native dramas. 

But what can we think of those who, having ransacked the 
pages of history to discover whatever was most revolting to the 
human soul, should sit down to arrange it in action, detailed at 
full length, with every hateful circumstance exaggerated and 
brought out to view, for the purpose of tickling the curiosity of 
their countrymen and countrywomen, and by that means begui- 
ling them into the contemplation of scenes that Virtue would turn 
from with loathing, and before which Innocence must perish as 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 241 

she gazes ? No gleam of goodness throughout the whole for the 
heart to cling to, — no thought of remorseful penitence, — no spark 
of noble feeling ; nothing but vice, — low, grovelling, brutal vice, — 
from the moment the curtain rises to display the obscene spec- 
tacle, to that which sees it fall between the fictitious infamy on 
one side, and the real impurity left on the other ! 

As I looked on upon the hideous scene, and remembered the 
classic horrors of the Greek tragedians, and of. the mighty imita- 
tors who have followed them, I could not help thinking that the 
performance of MM. Gaillardet et * * * was exceedingly like that 
of a monkey mimicking the operations of a man. He gets hold 
of the same tools, but turns the edges the wrong way; and in- 
stead of raising a majestic fabric in honour of human genius, he 
rolls the materials in mud, begrimes his own paws in the shmy 
cement, and then claws hold of every unwary passenger who 
comes within his reach, and bespatters him with the rubbish he 
has brought together. Such monkeys should be chained, or they 
will do much mischief. 

It is hardly possible that such dramas as the " Tour de Nesle" 
can be composed with the intention of producing a great tragic 
effect ; which is surely the only reason which can justify bringing 
sin and misery before the eyes of an audience. There is in 
almost every human heart a strange love for scenes of terror and 
of wo. We love to have our sympathies awakened — our deepest 
feelings roused; we love to study in the magic mirror of the 
scene what we ourselves might feel did such awful visitations 
come upon us ; and there is an unspeakable interest inspired by 
looking on, and fancying that were it so with us, we might so 
act, so feel, so suffer, and so die. But is there in any land a 
wretch so lost, so vile, as to be capable of feeling sympathy with 
any sentiment or thought expressed throughout the whole progress 
of this " Tour de Nesle ?" God forbid ! 

I have heard of poets who have written under the inspiration 
of brandy and laudanum — the exhalations from which are certainly 
not likely to form themselves into images of distinctness or beauty ; 
but the inspiration that dictated the " Tour de Nesle" must have 
been something viler still, though not less powerful. It must, I 
think, have been the cruel calculation of how many dirty francs 
might be expressed from the pockets of the idle, by a spectacle 
new from its depth of atrocity, and attractive from its newness. 

But, setting aside for a moment the sin and the scandal of pro- 
ducing on a public stage such a being as the woman to whom MM. 
Gaillardet et * * * have chosen to give the name of Marguerite de 
Bourgogne, it is an object of some curiosity to examine the liter- 
ary merits of a piece which, both on the stage and in the study, 
has been received by so many -thousands — perhaos millions— of 

Q 



242 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

individuals belonging to " la grande nation^'' as a work deserving 
their patronage and support — or at least as deserving their atten- 
tion and attendance for years ; years, too, of hourly progressive 
intellect — years during which the march of mind has outdone all 
former marches of human intelligence — years during which young 
France has been labouring to throw off her ancient coat of worn- 
out rococoism, and to clothe herself in new-fledged brightness. 
During these years she has laid on one shelf her once-venerated 
Corneille, — on another, her almost worshipped Racine. Moliere 
is named but as a fine antique ; and Voltaire himself, spite of his 
strong claims upon their revolutionary affections, can hardly be 
forgiven for having said of the two whom Victor Hugo is declared 
to have overthrown, that " These men taught the people to think, 
to feel, to express themselves ; their auditors, instructed by them 
alone, became at length competent and severe judges even of them 
by whom they had been enlightened." Let any one whose rea- 
son is not totally overthrown by the fever and delirium of innova- 
tion read the " Tour de Nesle," and find out, if he can, any single 
scene, speech, or phrase deserving the suffrage which Paris has 
accorded to it. Has the dialogue either dignity, spirit, or truth 
of nature to recommend it ? Is there a single sentiment through- 
out the five acts with which an honest man can accord ? Is there 
even an approach to grace or beauty in the tableaux ? or skill in 
the arrangement of the scenes ? or keeping of character among the 
demoniacal dramatis personce which MM. Gaillardet et * * * have 
brought together ? or, in short, any one merit to recommend it — 
except only its superlative defiance of common decency and com- 
mon sense ? 

If there be any left among the men of France — I speak not now 
of her boys, the spoiled grandchildren of the old revolution — but, 
if there be any left among her men, as I in truth believe there are, 
who deprecate this eclipse of her literary glory, is it not sad thaf 
they should be forced to permit its toleration, for fear they should 
be sent to Ham for interfering with the liberty of the press ? 

It is impossible to attend the representation of one of these in- 
famous pieces without perceiving, as you glance your eye around 
the house, who are its patrons and supporters. At no great dis- 
tance from us, when we saw the " Tour de Nesle," were three 
young men, who had all of them a most thoroughly "jeunes gens'^ 
and republican cast of countenance, and tournure of person and 
dress. They tossed their heads and snuffed the theatrical air of 
*' la Jeune France" as if they felt that they were, or ought to be, 
her masters : and it is a positive fact, that nothing pre-eminently 
absurd or offensive was done or said upon the stage, which this 
trio did not mark with particular admiration and applause. 

There was, however, such a saucy look of determination to do 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 243 

what they knew was absurd, that I gave them credit for being 
aware of the nonsense of what they applauded, from the very fact 
that they did applaud it. 

It is easy enough sometimes to discover " le vrai au travels du 
ridicule ;" and these silly boys were not, I am persuaded, such 
utter blockheads as they endeavoured to appear. It is a bad and 
mischievous tone, however ; and the affecting a vice where you 
have it not, is quite as detestable a sort of hypocrisy as any other. 

Some thousand years hence, perhaps, if any curious collectors 
of rare copies should contrive among them to preserve specimens 
of the French dramas of the present day, it may happen that while 
the times that are gone shall continue to be classed as the Iron, 
the Golden, the Dark, and the Augustan ages, this day of ours 
may become familiar in all men's mouths as the Diabolic age, — ■ 
unless, indeed, some charitable critic shall step forward in our 
defence, and bestow upon it the gentler appellation of " the Idiot 
era." 



LETTER XLVII 

Palais Royal — Variety of Characters — Party of English — Restaurant— Galerie d'Orleans 
— Number of Loungers — Convenient abundance of Idle Men — Theatre du Vaudeville. 

Though, as a lady, you may fancy yourself quite beyond the 
possibility of ever feeling any interest in the Palais Royal, its 
restaurans, its trinket-shops, riband-shops, toy-shops, &c. &c. &c., 
and all the world of misery, mischief, and good cheer which rises 
etage after etage above them ; I must nevertheless indulge in a 
little gossip respecting it, because few things in Paris — I might, I 
believe, say nothing — can show an aspect so completely un-Eng- 
lish in all ways as this singular region. The palace itself is 
stately and imposing, though not externally in the very best taste. 
Corneille, however, says of it, — 

L'univers entier ne peut voir rien d'egal 
.' Au superbe dehors du Palais Cardinal," 

as it was called from having been built and inhabited by the Car- 
dinal de Richelieu. But it is the use made of the space which 
was originally the cardinal's garden, which gives the place its 
present interest. 

All the world — men, women, and children, gentle and simple, 
rich and poor, — in short, I suppose every living soul that enters 
Paris, is taken to look at the Palais Royal. But, though many 

Q2 



244 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

Strangers linger there, alas ! all too long, there are many others 
who, according to ray notions, do not linger there long enough. 
The quickest eye cannot catch at one glance, though that glance 
be in activity during a tour made round the whole enclosure, all 
the national characteristic, picturesque, and comic groups which 
float about there incessantly through at least twenty hours of the 
twenty-four. I know that the Palais Royal is a study which, in 
its higher walks and profoundest depths, it would be equally dif- 
ficult, dangerous, and disagreeable to pursue : but with these alti- 
tudes and profundities I have nothing to do ; there are abundance 
of objects to be seen there, calculated and intended to meet the 
eyes of all men, and women too, which may furnish matter for 
observation, without either diving or climbing in pursuit of knowl- 
edge that, after all, would be better lost than found. 

But one should have the talent of Hogarth to describe the dif- 
ferent groups, with all their varied little episodes of peculiarity^ 
which render the Palais Royal so amusing. These groups are^ 
to be sure, made up only of Parisians, and of the wanderers who 
visit la belle ville in order to see and be seen in every part of it ; 
yet it is in vain that you would seek elsewhere the same odd se- 
lection of human beings that are to be found sans faute in every 
corner of the Palais Royal. 

How it happens I know not, but so it is, that almost every per- 
son you meet here furnishes food for speculation. If it be an ele- 
gant, well-appointed man of fashion, the fancy instantly tracks him 
to a salon de jeu ; and if you are very good-natured, your heart 
will ache to think how much misery he is likely to carry home 
with him. If it be a low, skulking, semi-genteel moustache, with 
large, dark, deep-set eyes rolling about to see whom he can de- 
vour, you are as certain that he too is making for a salon, as that 
a man with a rod and line on his shoulder is going to fish. That 
pretty souhrette, with her neat heels and smart silk apron, wha 
has evidently a few francs tied up in the corner of the handker- 
chief which she holds in her hand — do we not know that she is 
peering through the window of every trinket-shop to see where 
she can descry the most tempting gold ear-rings, for the purchase 
of which a quarter's wages are about to be dis-kerchiefed ? 

We must not overlook, and indeed it would not be easy to do 
so, that well-defined domestic party of our country-folks who 
have just turned into the superb Galerie d'Orleans. Father, 
mother, and daughters — how easy to guess their thoughts, and 
almost their words ! The portly father declares that it would make 
a capitah Exchange : he has not yet seen La Bourse. He looks 
up to its noble height — then steps forward a pace or two, and 
measures with his eye the space on all sides — then stops, and 
perhaps says to the stately lady on his arm (whose eyes mean- 



PARIS AND THE PAPaSIANS. 245 

while are wandering amid shawls, gloves, Cologne-bottles, and 
Sevres china, first on one side and then on the other), — " This is 
not badly built ; it is light and lofty — and the width is very con- 
siderable for so slight-looking a roof; but what is it compared to 
Waterloo-bridge !" 

Two pretty girls, with bright cheeks, dove-like eyes, and 
" tresses like the morn," falling in unnumbered ringlets, so as al- 
most to hide their curious yet timid glances, precede the parent 
pair ; but, with pretty well-taught caution, pause when they pause, 
and step on when they step on. But they can hardly look at any 
thing; for do they not know, though their downcast eyes can 
hardly be said to see it, that those youths with coal-black hair, fa- 
voris, and imperials, are spying at them with their lorgnettes ? 

Here, too, as at the Tuileries, are little pavilions to supply 
the insatiable thirst for politics ; and here, too, we could distin- 
guish the melancholy champion of the elder branch of the Bour- 
bons, who is at least sure to find the consolation of his faithful 
*' Quotidienne," and the sympathy of " La France." The sour 
republican stalks up, as usual, to seize upon the " Reformateur ;" 
while the comfortable doctrinaire comes forth from the Cafe Very, 
ruminating on the " Journal des Debats," and the chances of his 
bargains at Tortoni's or La Bourse. 

It was in a walk taken round three sides of the square that we 
marked the figures I have mentioned, and many more too numer- 
ous to record, on a day that we had fixed upon to gratify our cu- 
riosity by dining — not at Very's, or any other far-famed artist's, 
but tout bonnement at a restaurant of quarante sous par tete.* 
Having made our tour, we mounted au second at numero — I for- 
get what, but it was where we had been especially recommended 
to make this coup d'essai. The scene we entered upon, as we 
followed a long string of persons who preceded us, was as amu- 
sing as it was new to us all. 

1 will not say that I should like to dine three days in the week 
at the Palais Royal for quarante sous par tete ; but I will say that 
I should be very sorry riot to have done it once, and, moreover, 
that I heartily hope I may do it again. 

The dinner was extremely good, and as varied as our fancy 
chose to make it, each person having privilege to select three or 
four plats from a carte that it would take a day to read deliberately. 
But the dinner was certainly to us the least important part of the 
business. The novelty of the spectacle, the number of strange- 
looking people, and the perfect amenity and good-breeding which 
seemed to reign among them all, made us look about us with a de- 
gree of interest and curiosity that almost caused the whole party 
to forget the ostensible cause of their visit. 

* Forty sous apiece. 



246 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

There were many English, chiefly gentlemen, and several Ger- 
mans with their wives and daughters ; but the majority of the 
company was French ; and, from sundry little circumstances re- 
specting taking the places reserved for them, and different words 
of intelligence between themselves and the waiters, it was evident 
that many among them were not chance visiters, but in the daily 
habit of dining there. What a singular mode of existence is this, 
and how utterly inconceivable to English feelings ! . . . . Yet 
habit, and perhaps prejudice, apart, it is not difficult to perceive 
that it has its advantages. In the first place, there is no manage- 
ment in the world, not even that of Mrs. Primrose herself, which 
could enable a man to dine at home, for the sum of two francs, 
with the same degree of luxury as to what he eats, that he does 
at one of these restaurans. Five hundred persons are calculated 
upon as the daily average of company expected ; and forty pounds 
of ready money in Paris, with the skilful aid of French cooks, 
will furnish forth a dinner for this number, and leave some profit 
besides. Add to which, the sale of wine is, I believe, considera- 
ble. Some part of the receipts, however, must be withdrawn as 
interest upon the capital employed. The quantity of plate is very 
abundant, not only in the apparently unlimited supply of forks 
and spoons, but in furnishing the multitude of grim-looking silver 
bowls in which the potage is served. 

On the whole, however, I can better understand the possibility 
of five hundred dinners being furnished daily for two francs each, 
by one of these innumerable establishments, than I can the mar- 
vel of five hundred people being daily found by each of these to 
eat them. Hundreds of these houses exist in Paris, and all of 
them are constantly furnished with guests. But this manner of 
living, so unnatural to us, seems not only natural, but needful to 
them. They do it all so well — so pleasantly ! Imagine for a mo- 
ment the sort of tone and style such a dining-room would take in 
London. I do not mean if limited to the same price, but set it 
greatly beyond the proportion : let us imagine an establishment 
where males and females should dine at five shillings a head — 
what din, what unsocial, yet vehement clattering would inevitably 
ensue ! — not to mention the utter improbability that such a place, 
really and hondfide open to the public, should continue a reputa- 
ble resort for ladies for a week after its doors were open. 

But here every thing was as perfectly respectable and well ar- 
ranged as if each little table had been placed, with its separate 
party, in a private room at Mivart's. It is but fair, therefore, that 
while we hug ourselves, as we are all apt to do, on the refinement 
which renders the exclusive privacy of our own dining-rooms ne- 
cessary to our feelings of comfort, we should allow that equal re- 
linement, though of another kind, must exist among those who. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 247 

when thrown thus promiscuously together, still retain and manifest 
towards each other the same deference and good-breeding which 
we require of those whom we admit to our private circle. 

At this restaurant, as everywhere else in Paris, we found it easy 
enough to class our gens. I feel quite sure that we had around us 
many of the employes du gouvernement actuel — several anciens 
militaires of Napoleon's — some specimens of the race distinguish- 
ed by Louis Dix-huit and Charles Dix — and even, if I do not 
greatly mistake, a few relics of the Convention, and of the unfor- 
tunate monarch who was its victim. 

But during this hour of rest and enjoyment all differences seem 
forgotten ; and however discordant may be their feelings, two 
Frenchmen cannot be seated near each other at table without ex- 
changing numberless civilities, and at last entering into conversa- 
tion, so well sustained and so animated, that instead of taking them 
for strangers who had never met before, we, in our stately shyness, 
would be ready to pronounce that they must be familiar friends. 

Whether it be this causant, social temper which makes them 
prefer thus living in public, or that thus living in public makes 
them social, I cannot determine to my own satisfaction ; but the 
one is not more remarkable and more totally unlike our own man- 
ners than the other, and I really think that no one who has not 
dined thus in Paris can have any idea how very wide, in some di- 
rections, the line of demarcation is between the two countries. 

I have on former occasions dined with a party at places of much 
higher price, where the object was to observe what a very good 
dinner a very good cook could produce in Paris. But this experi- 
ment offered nothing to our observation at all approaching in inter- 
est and nationality to the dinner of quarante sous. 

In the first place, you are much more likely to meet English than 
French society at these costly repasts ; and in the second, if you 
do encounter at them a genuine native gourmet of la Grande Na- 
tion, he will, upon this occasion, be only doing like ourselves — 
that is to say, giving himself un repas exquis, instead of regaling 
himself at home with his family — 

" Sur un lievre flanque de deuz poulets etiques." 

But at the humble restaurant of two francs, you have again a new 
page of Paris existence to study — and one which, while it will 
probably increase your English relish for your English home, will 
show you no unprofitable picture of the amiable social qualities of 
France. I think that if we could find a people composed in equal 
proportions of the two natures, they would be as near to social 
perfection as it is possible to imagine. 

The French are almost too amiable to every one they chance 
to sit near. The lively smile, the kind empressement, the ready 



248 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

causerie, would be more flattering did we not know that it was all 
equally at the service of the whole world. Whereas we are more 
than equally wrong in the other extreme ; having the air of suspect- 
ing that every human being who happens to be thrown into contact 
with us, before we know his birth, parentage, and education, is 
something very dangerous, and to be guarded against with all pos- 
sible care and precaution. Query — Do not the Germans furnish 
something very like this juste milieu ? 

Having concluded our unexpensive repast with the prescribed 
cup of black coffee — that is, coffee without milk — we again sallied 
forth to take the tour of the Palais Royal, in order to occupy the 
time till the opening of the Theatre du Vaudeville, with which, as 
we were so very close to it, we determined to finish the evening. 

We returned, as we came, through the noble Galerie d'Orleans, 
which was now crowded with the assembled loungers of all the 
numerous restaurans. It is a gay and animated scene at any time 
of the day ; but at this particular hour, just before the theatres 
open, and just after the gay people have all refreshed their animal 
spirits, Paris itself seems typified by the aspect of the lively, 
laughing, idle throng assembled there. 

One reason, I believe, why Paris is so much more amusing to 
a looker-on than London, is, that it contains so many more people, 
in proportion to its population, who have nothing in the world to 
do but to divert themselves and others. There are so many more 
idle men here, who are contented to live on incomes that with us 
would be considered as hardly sufficient to supply a lodging; 
small rentiers, who prefer being masters of their own lime and 
amusing themselves with a little, to working very hard and being 
very much ennuyes with a great deal of money. I am not quite 
sure that this plan answers well when youth is past — at least for 
the individuals themselves : it is probable, I think, that as the 
strength, and health, and spirits fade away, something of quieter 
and more substantial comfort must often be wished for, when per- 
haps it is too late to obtain it ; but for others — for all those who 
form the circle round which the idle man of pleasure skims thus 
lightly, he is a never-failing resource. What would become of all 
the parties for amusement which take place morning, noon, and 
night in Paris, if this race were extinct 1 Whether they are mar- 
ried or single, they are equally eligible, equally necessary, equally 
welcome wherever pleasure makes the business of the hour. 
With us, it is only a small and highly-privileged class who can per- 
mit themselves to go wherever and whenever pleasure beckons ; 
but in France, no lady arranging a fete, let it be of what kind it 
may, has need to think twice and thrice before she can answer the 
important but tormenting question — " But what men can we get ?" 

The Vaudeville was very full, but we contrived to get a good 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 249 

box au second, from whence we saw, greatly to our delectation and 
amusement, three pretty little pieces — " Les Gants Jaunes," " Le 
Premier Amour," and " Elle est Folle ;" which last was of the 
larmoyante school, and much less to my taste than the lively non- 
sense of the two former ; yet it was admirably well played too. 
But I always go to a vaudeville with the intention of laughing ; 
and, if this purpose fail, I am disappointed. 



LETTER XLVIII. 

Literary Conversation — Modern Novelists — Vicomte d'Arlincourt, his Portrait — Cha- 
teaubriand — Bemardin de Saint Pierre — Shakspeare — Sir Walter Scott — French fa- 
miliarity with English Authors — Miss Mitford — Miss Landon — Parisian passion for 
Novelty — Extent of general Information. 

We were last night at a small party where there was neither 
dancing, music, cards, nor (wonderful to say !) politics to amuse 
or occupy us : nevertheless, it was one of the most agreeable 
soirees at which I have been present in Paris. The conversation 
was completely on literary subjects, but totally without the pre- 
tension of a literary society. In fact, it was purely the effect of 
accident ; and it was just as likely that we might have passed the 
evening in talking of pictures, or music, or rocks and rivers, as of 
books. But Fate decreed that so it should be ; and the conse- 
quence was, that we had the pleasure of hearing three French' 
men' and two Frenchwomen talk for three hours of the literature 
of their country. I do not mean to assert that no other person 
spoke — but the frais de la conversation were certainly furnished 
by the five natives. 

One of the gentlemen, and that too the oldest man in company, 
was more tolerant towards the present race of French novel-wri- 
ters than any person of his age and class that I have yet conver- 
sed with ; but, nevertheless, his approval went no farther than to 
declare that he thought the present mode of following human na- 
ture with a microscope into all the recesses to which passion, and 
even vice, could lead it, was calculated to make a better novelist 
than the fashion which preceded it, of looking at all things through 
a magnifying medium, and of straining and striving, in conse- 
quence, to make that appear great which was by its nature es- 
sentially the reverse. 

The Vicomte d'Arlincourt was the author he named to establi sh 
the truth of his proposition ; he would not admit him to be an 'ex- 
aggeration of the school which has passed away, but only ihe 
perfection of it. 



250 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

" I remember," said he, " to have seen at the Louvre, many- 
years ago, a full-length portrait of this gentleman, which I thought 
at the time was as perfect a symbol of what is called in France 
le style romantique, as it was well possible to conceive. He was 
standing erect on the rocky point of a precipice, with eye in- 
spired, and tablets in his hand : a foaming torrent rolled its tor- 
tured waters at his feet, while he, calm and sublime, looked not 
' hke a young beauty just aroused from sleep,' but very like a young 
incroyable snatched from a fashionable salon to meditate upon the 
wild majesty of nature, with all the inspiring adjuncts of tempest, 
wildness, and solitude. He appeared dressed in an elegant black 
coat and waistcoat, black silk stockings, and dancing pumps. 
It would be lost labour," he continued, " should I attempt to give 
you a more just idea of his style of writing than the composition 
of this portrait conveys. It is in vain that M. le Vicomte places 
himself amid rocks and cataracts — he is still M. le Vicomte ; and 
his silk stockings and dancing pumps will remain visible, spite of 
all the froth and foam he labours to raise around him." 

" It is not D'Arlincourt, however," said M. de C * * *, " who 
has either the honour or dishonour of having invented this style 
romantique — but a much greater man : it was Chateaubriand who 
first broke through all that was left of classic restraint, and per- 
mitted his imagination to run wild among every thing in heaven 
and earth." 

" You cannot, however, accuse him of running this wild race 
with his imagination en habit bourgeois," said the third gentleman : 
" his style is extravagant, but never ludicrous ; Chateaubriand 
really has, what D'Arlincourt affected to have, a poetical and 
abounding fancy, and a fecundity of imagery which has often be- 
trayed him into bad taste from its very richness ; but there is 
nothing strained, forced, and unnatural in his eloquence, — for elo- 
quence it is, though a soberer imagination and a severer judgment 
might have kept it within more reasonable bounds. After all that 
can be said against his taste, Chateaubriand is a great man, and 
his name will live among the literati of France ; but God forbid 
that any true prophet should predict the same of his imitators !" 

" And God forbid that any true prophet should predict the same 
of the school that has succeeded them !" said Madame V * * * * — 
a delightful old woman, who wears her own gray hair, and does 
not waltz. " I have sometimes laughed and sometimes yawned 
over the productions of the ecole U Arlincourt" she added ; " but 
I invariably turn with disgust and indignation from those of the 
d ;'mestic style which has succeeded to it." 

" Invariably ?" . . . said the old gentleman, interrogatively. 
'Yes, invariably; because, if I see any symptom of talent, I 
Ian ent it, and feel alarmed for the possible mischief which may 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 251 

ensue. I can never wish to see high mental power, which is the 
last and best gift of Heaven, perverted so shamelessly." 

" Come, come, dear lady," replied the advocate of what Goethe 
impressively calls "la litterature du desespoir," "you must not over- 
throw the whole fabric because some portion of it is faulty. The 
object of our tale-writers at present is, beyond all doubt, to paint 
men as they are : if they succeed, their labours cannot fail of 
being interesting — and I should think they might be very useful too." 

" Fadaise que tout cela !" exclaimed the old lady, eagerly. 
" Before men can paint human nature profitably, they must see it 
as it really is, my good friend — and not as it appears to these 
miserables in their baraques and greniers. We have nothing to do 
with such scenes as they paint ; and they have nothing to do 
(God help them !) with literary labours. Have you Bernardin de 
Saint Pierre, ma chere ?" said she, addressing the lady of the 
house. The little volume was immediately handed to her from a 
chiffonni^re that stood behind us. "Now this," she continued, 
having found the passage she sought, — " this is what I conceive 
to be the legitimate object of literature ;" and she read aloud the 
following passage : — 

" Letters were sent from Heaven to the aid of man. They are 
rays of that wisdom which governs the universe-^rays which man, 
inspired by celestial art, has learned to retain upon the earth . . . 
They calm the passions ; they repress vice — they excite to virtue 
by the august examples of good men whom they celebrate, and 
whose honoured images they keep always before us." 

" Well ! Is he not right, this Bernardin ?" said she, laying aside 
her spectacles and looking round upon us. Every one admired 
the passage. " Is this the use your French romancers make of 
letters ?" she continued, looking triumphantly at their advocate. 

" Not exactly," he repUed, laughing, — " or at least not always : 
but I could show you passages in Michel Raymond . . . ." 

" Bah !" exclaimed the old lady, interrupting him ; " I will have 
nothing to do with his passages. I think it is Chamfort who says, 
that ' a fool who occasionally displays some sparks of talent, con- 
founds and astonishes like coach-horses on the gallop.' I don't 
like such unexpected jerks of sublimity — they startle more than 
they please me." 

The conversation then rambled on to Shakspeare, and to the 
mischief — such was the word — to the mischief his example, and 
the passionate admiration expressed for his writings, had done to 
the classic purity of- French literature. This phrase, however, 
was not only cavilled at, but in true French style was laughed to 
death by the rest of the party. The word " classic" was declared 
too rococo for use, and Shakspeare loudly proclaimed to be only 
defective as a model because too mighty to imitate. 



252 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

I have, however, some faint misgivings as to the perfect sincerity 
of this verdict, — and this chiefly because there was but one French- 
man present who affected to know any thing about him excepting 
through the medium of translation. Now, notwithstanding that 
the talent shown by M. Ducis in the translation of some passages 
is very considerable, we all know that Shakspeare may be very 
nearly as fairly judged from the Italian " Otello" as the French 
*' Hamlet." The party were, however, quite sincere, I am sure, in 
the feeling they expressed of reverence for the unequalled bard, 
founded upon the rank he held in the estimation of his country- 
men ; this being, as the clear-headed old lady observed, the only 
sure criterion, for foreigners, of the station which he ought to hold 
among the poets of the earth. 

Then followed some keen enough observations — applicable to 
any one but Shakspeare — of the danger there might be, that in 
mixing tragedy and comedy together, farce might unfortunately be 
ihe result ; or, if the " fusion," as it has been called, of tragedy 
and comedy into one were very skilfully performed, the sublime 
and prodigious monster called melodrame might be hoped for, as 
the happiest product that could be expected. 

It being thus civilly settled that our Shakspeare might be as 
wild as he chose, but that it would be advisable for other people 
to take care how they attempted to follow him, the party next fell 
into a review, more individual and particular than I was well able 
to follow, or than I can now repeat, of many writers of verses and 
of novels that, I was fain to confess, I had never heard of before. 
One or two of the novel-writers were declared to be very success- 
ful imitators of the style and manner of Sir Walter Scott : and 
when this was stated, I was, to say the truth, by no means sorry 
to plead total and entire ignorance of their name and productions ; 
for having, as I fear, manifested a little national warmth on the 
subject of Shakspeare, I should have been sorry to start off in 
another tirade concerning Sir Walter Scott, which I might have 
found it difficult to avoid, had I known exactly what it was which 
they ventured to compare to him. 

I do not quite understand how it happens that the Parisians are 
so much better acquainted with the generality of our light litera- 
ture, than we are with the generality of theirs. This is the more 
unaccountable, from the fact so universally known, that for one 
French person who reads English, there are at leasj; ten Enghsh 
who read French. It is, however, impossible to deny that such is 
the fact. I am sure I have heard the names of two or three 
dozen authors, since I have been here, of whose existence, or of 
that of their works, neither I, nor any of my literary friends, I be- 
lieve, have had the least knowledge ; and yet we have considered 
ourselves quite au courant du jour in such matters, having never 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 253 

missed any opportunity of reading every French book that came 
in our way, and moreover of sedulously consulting the Foreign 
Quarterly. In canvassing this difference between us, one of the 
party suggested that it might perhaps arise from the fact that no 
work which was popular in England ever escaped being reprinted 
on the Continent, — that is to say, either at Paris or Brussels. 
Though this is done solely as a sort of piratical speculation, for 
the purpose of inducing all the travelling English to purchase new 
books for four francs here, instead of giving thirty shillings for 
them at home, it is nevertheless a natural consequence of this 
manoeuvre, that the names of English books are familiarly known 
here even before they have been translated. 

Many of our lady authors have the honour apparently of being 
almost as well known at Paris as at home. I had the pleasure of 
hearing Miss Mitford spoken of with enthusiasm ; and one lady 
told me that, judging her from her works, she would rather be- 
come acquainted with her than with any author living. 

Miss Landon is also well known and much admired. Madame 
Tastu told me she had translated many of her compositions, and 
thought very highly of them. In short, English literature and 
English literati are at present very hospitably treated in France, 

I was last night asked innumerable questions about many books^ 
and many people, whose renomviee I was surprised to find had 
crossed the Channel ; and having communicated pretty nearly all 
the information I possessed upon the subject, I began to question 
in my turn, and heard abundance of anecdotes and criticisms, 
many of them given with all the sparkling keenness of French 
satire. 

Many of les petits ridicules that we are accustomed to hear 
quizzed at home, seem to exist in the same manner, and spite of 
the same light chastisement, here. The manner, for example, of 
making a very little wit and wisdom go a great way, by means of 
short lines and long stops, does not appear to be in any degree 
peculiar to our island. As a specimen of this, a quotation from a 
new romance by Madame Girardin (ci-devant Mademoiselle Del- 
phine Gay) was shown me in a newspaper. I will copy it for you 
as it was printed, and I think you will allow that our neighbours 
at least equal us in this ingenious department of literary compo- 
sition. 

" Pensez-vous 
Qu' Arthur voulut revoir Mademoiselle de Sommery ?" 

" NoN : 
Au lieu de 1' aimer, 
II la detestaitP'' 

" Oui, 
11 la detestait.'" 



254 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

1 think our passion for novelty is pretty strong ; but if the in- 
formation which I received last night respecting the same impe- 
rious besoin here was not exaggerated by the playful spirit of the 
party who were amusing themselves by describing its influence, 
we are patient and tame in our endurance of old " by-gones" in 
comparison to the Parisians. They have, indeed, a saying which 
in few words paints this craving for novelty as strongly, as I could 
do, did I torment my memory to repeat to you every word said by 
my lively friends last night : 

" We must have novelty, even though we go out of the world to find it." 

It is delightful to us to get hold of a new book or a new song — 
a new preacher or a new fiddler : it is delightful to us, but to the 
Parisians it is indispensable. To meet in society and have noth- 
ing new for the causette, would be worse than remaining at home. 

I know not how it is that people who appear to pass so few 
hours of every day out of sight contrive to know so well every 
thing that has been written, and every thing that has been done, 
in all parts of the world. No one ever appears ignorant on any 
subject. Is this tact? Or is it knowledge, — real, genuine, sub- 
stantial information respecting all things ? I suspect that it is not 
wholly either the one or the other ; and that many circumstances 
contribute both to the general diffusion of information, and to the 
rapid manner of receiving and the brilliant style of displaying it. 

This at least is certain, that whatever they do know is made the 
very most of; and though some may suspect that so great display 
of general information indicates rather extent than depth of knowl- 
edge, none, I think, can refuse to acknowledge, that the manner 
in which a Frenchman communicates what he has acquired is par- 
ticularly amiable, graceful, and unpedantic. 



LETTER XLIX. 

Trial by Jury — Power of the Jury in France— Comparative insignificance of that vested 
in the Judge — Virtual AboUtion of Capital Punishments — Flemish Anecdote. 

Do not be terrified, my dear friend, and fancy that I am going 
to exchange my idle, ambling pace, and my babil de femme, to 
join the march of intellect, and endite wisdom. I have no such 
ambition in my thoughts ; and yet I must retail to you part of a 
conversation with which I have just been favoured by an extreme- 
ly intelligent friend, on the very manly subject of ... . Not polit- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 255 

ical economy ; — be tranquil on that point ; the same drowsy dread 
falls upon me when those two portentous words sound in my ears 
with which they seem to have inspired Coleridge ; — not political 
economy, but trial hy jury. 

M. V***, the gentleman in question, gave me credit, I believe, 
for considerably more savoir than I really possess, as to the actual 
and precise manner in which this important constitutional right 
works in England. My ignorance, however, though it prevented 
my giving much information, did not prevent my receiving it ; and 
I repeat our conversation for the purpose of telling you in what a 
very singular manner, according to his account, it appears to work 
in France. 

I must, however, premise, that my friend is a stanch Henri- 
Quintist; which, though I am sure that in his case it would not 
produce any exaggeration in the statement of facts, may neverthe- 
less be fairly presumed to influence his feelings, and consequently 
his manner of stating them. 

The circumstance which gave rise to this grave discussion was 
a recent judgment passed here upon a very atrocious case of mur- 
der. I am not particularly fond of hanging ; nevertheless, I was 
startled at hearing that this savage and most ferocious slayer of 
men was condemned to imprisonment and travail force instead 
of death. 

" It is very rarely that any one now suffers the extreme penalty 
of the law in this country," said M. V***, in reply to my remark 
on this sentence. 

" Is it since your last revolution," said I, " that the punishment 
of death has been commuted for that of imprisonment and la- 
bour?" 

" No such commutation has taken place as an act of the legis- 
lature," he replied : " it rests solely with the jury whether a mur- 
derer be guillotined, or only imprisoned." 

I fancied that I misunderstood him, and repeated his words, — 
" With the jury ?" 

" Oui, madame — absolument." 

This statement appeared to me so singular, that I still supposed 
I must be blundering, and that the words le jury in France did 
not mean the same thing as the word jury in England. 

In this, as it subsequently appeared, 1 was not much mistaken. 
Notwithstanding, my informer, who was not only a very intelli- 
gent person, but a lawyer to boot, continued to assure me that trial 
by jury was exactly the same in both countries as to principle, 
though not as to effect. 

" But," said I, " our juries have nothing to do with the sentence 
passed on the criminal : their business is to examine into the evi- 
dence brought forward by the witnesses to prove the guilt of the 



256 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

prisoner, and according to the impression which this leaves on 
their minds, they pronounce him ' guilty' or ' not guilty ;' and here 
their duty ends." 

" Yes, yes — I understand that perfectly," replied M. V * * * ; 
" and it is precisely the same thing with us ; — only it is not in 
the nature of a Frenchman to pronounce a mere dry, short, un- 
speculating verdict of ' guilty' or ' not guilty,' without exercising 
the powers of his intellect upon the shades of culpability which 
attach to the acts of each delinquent." 

This impossibility of giving a verdict without exe7Xising the 
power of intellect reminded me of an assize story on record in 
Cornwall, respecting the sentence pronounced by a jury upon a case 
in which it was very satisfactorily proved that a man had murdered 
his wife, but where it also appeared from the evidence that the 
unhappy woman had not conducted herself remarkably well. The 
jury retired to consult, and upon re-entering their box the foreman 
addressed the court in these words : " Guilty — but sarved her 
right, my lord." It was in vain that the learned judge desired 
them to amend their verdict, as containing matter wholly irrele- 
vant to the duty they had to perform ; the intellect of the jurymen 
was, upon this occasion, in a state of top great activity to permit 
their returning any other answer than the identical " Guilty — but 
sarved her right." I could hardly restrain a smile as this anec- 
dote recurred to me ; but my friend was too much in earnest in 
his explanation for me to interrupt him by an ill-timed jest, and 
he continued — 

" This frame of mind, which is certainly essentially French, is 
one cause, and perhaps the most inveterate one, which makes it 
impossible that the trial by jury should ever become the same 
safe and simple process with us that it is in England." 

" And in what manner does this activity of intellect interfere to 
impede the course of justice ?" said I. 

" Thus," he replied. " Let us suppose the facts of the case 
proved to the entire satisfaction of the jury : they make up their 
minds among themselves to pronounce a verdict of ' guilty ;' but 
their business is by no means finished, — they have still to decide 
how this verdict shall be delivered to the judge — whether with or 
without the declaration that there are circumstances calculated to 
extenuate the crime." 

" Oh yes ! I understand you now," I replied. " You mean, 
that when there are extenuating circumstances, the jury assume 
the privilege of recommending the criminal to mercy. Our juries 
do this likewise." 

" But not with the same authority," said he, smiling. " With 
lis, the fate of the culprit is wholly in the power of the jury ; for 
not only do they decide upon the question of guilty or not guilty, 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 257 

but, by the use of this word extenuating, they can remit by their 
sole will and pleasure the capital part of the punishment, let the 
crime be of what nature it may. No judge in this country dare 
sentence a criminal to capital punishment where the verdict 
against him has been qualified by this extenuating clause." 

" It should seem, then," said I, " that the duty of judge, which 
is attended with suck awful responsibilities with us, is here little 
more than the performance of an official ceremony V 
" It is very nearly such, I assure you." 

" And your jurymen, according to a phrase of contempt common 
among us, are in fact judge and jury both ?" 

" Beyond all contradiction they are so," he replied : " and I con- 
ceive that criminal justice is at this time more loosely adminis- 
tered in France than in any other civilized country in the world. 
In fact, our artisans have become, since the .revolution of 1830, 
not only judge and jury, but legislators also. Different crimes 
have different punishments assigned to them by our penal code, 
but it rarely, or I might say never, occurs in our days, that the 
punishment inflicted has any reference to that which is assigned 
by the law. That guilt may vary, even when the deed done does 
not, is certain ; and it is just and righteous therefore that a judge, 
learned in the law of the land, and chosen by high authority 
from among his fellows as a man of wisdom and integrity, — it is 
quite just and righteous that such a one should have the power — 
and a tremendous power it is — of modifying the extent of the 
penalty according to his view of the individual case. The charge 
too of an English judge is considered to be of immense impor- 
tance to the result of every trial. All this is as it should be ; but 
we have departed most widely from the model we have professed 
to follow. With us the judge has no such power — at least not 
practically : with us a set of chance-met artisans, ignorant alike 
of the law of the land and of the philosophy of punishment, have this 
tremendous power vested in them. It matters not how clearly the 
crime has been proved, and still less what penalty the law has 
adjudged to it ; the punishment inflicted is whatever it may please 
the jury to decide, and none other." 

*' And what is the effect which this strangely assumed power 
has produced on your administration of justice ?" said I. 

" The virtual abolition of capital punishment," was the reply. 
"When a jury," continued M. V * * *, " dehvers a verdict. to the 
judge of ' guilty, but with extenuating circum.stances,' the judge 
dare not condemn the criminal to death, though the law of the 
land assign that punishment to his offence, and though his own 
mind is convinced, by all which has come out upon the trial, 
that instead of extenuating circumstances, the commission of the 
crime has been attended with every possible aggravation of 

R 



258 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

atrocity. Such is the practical effect of the revolution of 1830 on 
the administration of criminal justice," 

" Does public opinion sanction this strange abuse of the func- 
tions of jurymen?" said I. 

"Public opinion cannot sanction it," he replied, "any more 
than it could sanction the committal of the crime itself. The one 
act is, in fact, as lawless as the other ; but the populace have 
conceived the idea that capital punishment is an undue exercise 
of power, and therefore our rulers fear to exercise it." 

This is a strange statement, is it not ? The gentleman who 
made it is, I am sure, too much a man of honour and integrity to 
falsify facts ; but it may perhaps be necessary to allow something 
for the colouring of party feeling. Whatever the present govern- 
ment does, or permits to be done, contrary to the system estab- 
lished during the period of the restoration, is naturally offensive 
to the feelings of the legitimatists, and repugnant to their judg- 
ments ; yet, in this case, the relaxation of necessary power must 
so inevitably lead to evil, that we must, I think, expect to see the 
reins gathered up, and the command resumed by the proper func- 
tionaries, as soon as the new government feels itself seated with 
sufficient firmness to permit the needful exertion of strength to be 
put forth with safety. 

It is certain that M. V * * * supported his statement by reciting 
so many strong cases in which the most fearful crimes, substan- 
tiated by the most unbroken chain of evidence, have been report- 
ed by the jury to the judge as having " extenuating circumstances" 
attached to them, that it is impossible, while things remain as 
they are, not to feel that such a mode of administering justice 
must make the habit of perjury as familiar to their jurymen as 
that of taking their oaths. 

This conversation brought to my recollection some strange 
stories which I had heard in Belgium apropos of the trial by jury 
there. If those stories were correct, they are about as far from 
comprehending, or at least from acting upon, our noble, equitable, 
and well-tried institution there, as they appear to be here — but 
from causes apparently exactly the reverse. There, I am told, 
it often happens that the jury can neither read nor write ; and that 
when they are placed in their box, they are, as might be expected, 
quite ignorant of the nature of the duty they are to perform, and 
often so greatly embarrassed by it, that they are ready and wil- 
ling — nay, thankful — to pronounce as their verdict whatever is 
dictated to them. 

I heard an anecdote of one man — and a thorough honest Flem- 
ing he was — who, having been duly empannelled, entered the 
jury-box, and having listened attentively to a trial that was before 
the court, declared, when called upon for his verdict, that he had 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 259 

iiot understood a single word frona the beginning to the end of it. 
The court endeavoured to explain the leading points of the ques- 
tion ; but still the worthy burgher persisted in declaring that the 
business was not in his line, and that he could not comprehend it 
sufficiently to give any opinion at all. The attempt at explana- 
tion was repeated, but in vain ; and at length the conscientious 
Fleming paid the fine demanded for the non-performance of the 
duty, and was permitted to retire. 

In France, on the contrary, it appears that human intellect has 
gone on so fast and so far, that no dozen of men can be found 
simple-minded enough to say " yes" or " no" to a question asked, 
without insisting that they must legislate upon it. 

In this case, at least, England shows a beautiful specimen of 
the juste milieu. 



LETTER 

English Pastry-cooks — French horror of English Pastry— tJnfortunate experiment upon 
a Muffin — The Citizen King. 

We have been on a regular shopping tour this morning, which 
was finished by our going into an English pastry-cook's to eat 
buns. While thus engaged, we amused ourselves by watching 
ihe proceedings of a French party who entered also for the pur- 
pose of making a morning gouter upon cakes. 

They had all of them more or less the air of having fallen upon 
a terra incognita, showing many indications of surprise at sight 
of the ultra-marine compositions which appeared before them ; — 
but there was a young man of the party who, it was evident, had 
made up his mind to quiz without measure all the foreign dainties 
that the shop aiforded, evidently considering their introduction as 
a very unjustifiable interference with the native manufacture. 

" Est-il possible !" said he, with an air of grave and almost in- 
dignant astonishment, as he watched a lady of his party preparing 
to eat an English bun, — " Est-il possible that you can prefer these 
strange-looking comestibles a la patisserie francjaise ?" 

" But taste one," said the lady, presenting a specimen of the 
same kind as that she was herself eating : " they are excellent." 

" No, no ! it is enough to look at them !" said her cavalier, 
almost shuddering. " There is no lightness, no elegance, no grace 
in any single gateau here." 

" But taste something," reiterated the lady. 

R 2 



260 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

" Vous le voulez absolument !" exclaimed the young man ; 
"quelle tyrannic ! . . . and what a proof of obedience I am about 
to give you! .... Voyons done!" he continued, approaching a 
plate on which were piled some truly English muffins — which, as 
you know, are of a somewhat mysterious manufacture, and about 
as palatable if eaten untoasted as a slice from a leathern glove. 
To this gdteau, as he supposed it to be, the unfortunate con- 
noisseur in patisserie approached, exclaiming with rather a theat- 
rical air, " Voilk done ce que je vais faire pour vos beaux yeux !" 

As he spoke, he took up one of the pale, tough things, and, to 
our extreme amusement, attempted to eat it. Any one might be 
excused for making a few grimaces on such an occasion,— and a 
Frenchman's privilege in this line is well known : but this hardy 
experimentalist outdid this privilege ; — he was in a perfect agony, 
and his spittings and reproachings were so vehement, that friends, 
strangers, boutiquier, and all, even down to a little befioured 
urchin who entered at the moment with a tray of patties, burst 
into uncontrollable laughter, which the unfortunate, to do him 
justice,- bore with extreme good-humour, only making his fair 
countrywoman promise that she would never insist upon his eating 
English confectionary again. 

Had this scene continued a minute longer, I should have missed 
seeing what I should have been sorry not to see, for I certainly 
could not have left' the pastry-cook's shop while the young French- 
man's sufferings lasted. Happily, however, we reached the 
Boulevard des Italiens in time to see King Louis Philippe, en 
simple bourgeois, passing on foot just before Les Bains Chinois, 
but on the opposite side of the way. 

Excepting a small tri-coloured cockade in his hat, he had nothing 
whatever in his dress to distinguish him from any other gentleman. 
He is a well- looking, portly, middle-aged man, with something of 
dignity in his step which, notwithstanding the unpretending citizen- 
like style of his promenade, would have drawn attention, and be- 
trayed him as somebody out of the common way, even without the 
plain-speaking cocmxle tricolore. There were two gentlemen a 
few paces behind him, as he passed us, who, I think, stepped up 
nearer to him afterward ; but there were no other individuals near 
who could have been in attendance upon him. I observed that he 
was recognised by many, and some few hats were taken off, par- 
ticularly by two or three Englishmen who met him ; but his 
appearance excited little emotion. I was amused, however, at 
the nonchalant air with which a young man at some distance, in 
full Robespierrian costume, used his lorgnon to peruse the person 
of the monarch as long as he remained in sight. 

The last king I saw in the streets of Paris was Charles the 
Tenth returning from a visit to one of his suburban palaces,, 



Am 




p. -ZbO 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 261 

escorted and accompanied in kingly state and style. The contrast 
in the men and in the mode was striking, and calculated to awaken 
lively recollections of all the events which had occurred to both 
of them since the last time that I turned my head to look after a 
sovereign of France. 

My fancy flew to Prague, and to the three generations of French 
monarchs stationed there almost as peaceably as if they had -taken 
up their quarters at St. Denis ! 

How like a series of conjurer's tricks is their history ! Think 
of this Charles the Tenth, in the flower of his youth and comeli- 
ness — the gallant, gay, and dissolute Comte d'Artois ; recall the 
noble range of windows belonging to his apartments at Versailles, 
and imagine him there radiant in youth and joy — the thoughtless, 
thriftless cadet of his royal race — the brother and the guest of the 
good king who appeared to reign over a willing people, by every 
human right, as well as right divine ! Louis Seize was king of 
France ; but the gay Comte d'Artois reigned sovereign of all the 
pleasures of Versailles. What joyous fetes ! . . . what brilliant 
jubilees ! . . . Meanwhile 

" Malignant Fate sat by and smiled." 

Had he then been told that he should live to be crowned king of 
France, and live thus many years afterward, would he not have 
thought that a most brilliant destiny was predicted to him ? 

Few men, perhaps, have suff'ered so much from the ceaseless 
changes of human events as Charles the Tenth of France. First, 
in the person of his eldest brother, dethroned and foully murdered ; 
then in his own exile, and that of another royal brother ; and again, 
when Fortune seemed to smile upon his race, and the crown of 
France was not only placed upon that brother's head, but appeared 
fixed in assured succession on his own princely sons, one of those 
sons was murdered : and lastly, having reached the throne him- 
self, and seen this lost son reviving in his hopeful offspring, comes 
another stroke of Fate, unexpected, unprepared for, overwhelm- 
ing, which hurls him from his throne, and drives him and his royal 

race once more to exile and to civil death Has he seen the 

last of the political earthquakes which have so shaken his exist- 
ence ? or has his restless star to rise again ? Those who wish 
most kindly to him cannot wish for this. 

But when I turned my thoughts from the dethroned and ban- 
ished king to him who stepped on in unguarded but fearless se- 
curity before me, and thought too on the vagaries of his destiny, 
I really felt as if this earth and all the people on it were little bet- 
ter than so many children's toys, changing their style and title to 
serve the sport of an hour. 

It seemed to me at that moment as if all men were classed in 



262 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

their due order only to be thrown into greater confusion — knocked 
down but to be set up again, and so eternally dashed from side to 
side, so powerless in themselves, so wholly governed by accidents, 
that I shrunk, humbled, from the contemplation of human help- 
lessness, and turned from gazing on a monarch to meditate on the 
insignificance of man. How vain are all the efforts he can make 
to shape the course of his own existence ! There is, in truth, noth- 
ing but trusting to surer wisdom, and to surer power, which can 
enable any of us, from the highest to the lowest, to pass on with 
tranquil nerves through a world subject to such terrible convul- 
sions. ■ ' 



LETTER LI. 

Parisian Women — Rousseau's failure in attempting to describe them — Their great influ- 
ence in Society — Their grace in Conversation — Difficulty of growing old — Do the 
ladies of France or those of England manage it best ? 

There is perhaps no subject connected with Paris which might 
give occasion to such curious and inexhaustible observation as the 
character, position, and influence of its women. But the theme, 
though copious and full of interest, is not without its difficulties ; 
and it is no small proof of this, that Rousseau, who rarely touched 
on any subject without persuading his reader that he was fully 
master of it, has nevertheless almost wholly failed on this. In 
one of the letters of "La Nouvelle Heloise," he sketches the 
characters of a few very commonplace ladies, whom he abuses 
unmercifully for their bad taste in dress, and concludes his abor- 
tive attempt at making us acquainted with the ladies of Paris by 
acknowledging that they have some goodness of heart. 

This is but a meager description of this powerful portion of the 
human race, and I can hardly imagine a volume that I should 
read with greater pleasure than one which should fully supply all 
its deficiencies. Do not imagine, however, that I mean to under- 
take the task. I am even less capable of it than the sublime 
misanthrope himself; for though I am of opinion that it should 
be an unimpassioned spectator, and not a lover, who should at- 
tempt to paint all the delicate little atoms of exquisite mosaic- 
work which constitute une Parisienne, I think it should not be a 
woman. 

All I can do for you on this subject is to recount the observa- 
tions I have been myself led to make in the passing glances I have 
now the opportunity of giving them, supported by what I have 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 263 

chanced to hear from better authority than my own : but I am 
aware that I can do httle more than excite your wish to become 
better acquainted with them than it is in my power to make you. 

It is impossible to be admitted into French society without im- 
mediately perceiving that the women play a very distinguished 
part in it. So, assuredly, do the women of England in their own : 
yet I cannot but think that, setting aside all cases of individual 
exception, the women of France have more povver and more im- 
portant influence than the women of England. 

I am aware that this is a very bold proposition, and that you may 
feel inclined to call me to account for it. But be I right or wrong 
in this judgment, it is at least sincere, and herein lies its chief 
value ; for I am by no means sure that I shall be able to explain 
very satisfactorily the grounds on which it is formed. 

France has been called " the paradise of women;" and if con- 
sideration and deference be sufficient to constitute a paradise, I 
think it may be called so justly. I will not, however, allow that 
Frenchmen make better husbands than Englishmen ; but I suspect 
they make politer husbands — and, all pleasantry apart, I am of 
opinion that this more observant tone or style, or whatever it may 
be termed, is very far from superficial — at least in its effects. I 
should be greatly surprised to hear from good authority that a 
French gentleman had ever been heard to speak rudely to his wife. 

Rousseau says, when he means to be what he himself calls 
" souverainement impertinent,^'' that "it is understood that a man 
should never refuse any thing to a lady, even though she be his 
wife." But it is not only in refusing her nothing that a French 
husband shows the superiority which I attribute to him ; I know 
many English husbands who are equally indulgent ; but, if 1 mis- 
take not, the general consideration enjoyed by French women has 
its origin not in the conjugal indulgence they enjoy, but in the do- 
mestic respect universally shown them. What foundation there 
maybe for the idea which prevails among us, that there is less 
strictness of morality among married women in France than in 
England, I will not attempt to decide ; but, judging from the testi- 
monies of respect shown them by fathers, husbands, brothers, and 
sons, I cannot but believe that, spite of travellers' tales, innuen- 
does, and all the authority of les contes moraiix to boot, there must 
be much of genuine virtue where there is so much genuine esteem. 

In a recent work on France, to which I have before alluded, a 
comparison is instituted between the conversational powers of the 
sex in England and in France ; and such a picture is drawn of the 
frivolous inanity of the author's fair countrywomen, as, were the 
work considered as one of much authority in France, must leave 
the impression with our neighbours that the ladies of England are 
tant soit peu Agnes. 



264 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Now this judgment is, I think, as little founded in truth as that 
of the traveller who accused us all of being brandy-drinkers. It 
is indeed impossible to say what effect might have been produced 
upon the ladies from whom this description was drawn, by the aw- 
ful consciousness that they were conversing with a person of over- 
whelming ability. There is such a thing as being " blasted by 
excess of light ;" but where this unpleasant accident does not oc- 
cur, I believe that those who converse with educated English 
women will find them capable of being as intellectual companions 
as any in the world. 

Our countrywomen, however, particularly the younger part of 
them, labour under a great disadvantage. The majority of them I 
believe to be as well, or perhaps better informed than the majority 
of Frenchwomen; but, unfortunately, it frequently happens that 
they are terrified at the idea of appearing too much so : the terror 
of being called learned is in general much more powerful than 
that of being classed as iffnorant. 

Happily for France, there is no blue badge, no stigma of any 
kind attached to the female possessors of talent and information. 
Every Frenchwoman brings forward with equal readiness and 
grace all she knows, all she thinks, and all she feels on every sub- 
ject that may be started ; whereas with us, the dread of imputed 
blueism weighs down many a bright spirit, and sallies of wit and 
fancy are withheld from the fear of betraying either the reading or 
the genius w^ith which many a fair girl is endued who would rather 
be thought an idiot than a Blue. 

This is, however, a \exj idle fear ; and that it is so, a slight 
glance upon society would show, if prejudice did not interfere to 
blind us. It is possible that here and there a sneer or a shrug may 
follow this opprobrious epithet of " blue ;" but as the sneer and the . 
shrug always come from those whose suffrage is of the least im- 
portance in society, their coming at all can hardly be a sufficient 
reason for putting on a masquerade habit of ignorance and fri- 
volity. 

It is from this cause, if I mistake not, that the conversation of 
the Parisian women takes a higher tone than that to which Eng- 
lish females venture to soar. Even politics, that fearful quick- 
sand which ingulfs so many of our social hours, dividing our 
drawing-rooms into a committee of men and a coterie of women, 
— even politics may be handled by them without danger ; for they 
fearlessly mix with that untoward subject so much lively persi- 
flage, so much acuteness, and such unerring tact, that many a 
knotty point which may have made puzzled legislators yawn in 
the Chamber, has been played with in the salon till it became as 
inteUigible as the light of wit could make it. 

No one who is familiar with that delightful portion of French 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 265 

literature contained in their letters and memoirs, which paint the 
manners and the minds of those they treat of with more truth of 
graphic effect than any other biography in the world, — no one ac- 
quainted with the aspect of society as it is painted there, but must 
be aware that the character of Frenchmen has undergone a great 
and important change during the last century. It has become 
perhaps less brilliant, but at the same time less frivolous ; and if 
we are obliged to confess that no star remains above the horizon 
of the same magnitude as those which composed the constellation 
that blazed during the age of Louis Quatorze and his successor, 
we must allow also that it would be difficult to find a minister of 
state who should now write to his friend as the Cardinal de Retz 
did to Boisrobert, — " Je me sauve a la nage dans ma chambre, au 
milieu des parfums." 

If, however, these same minute records can be wholly trusted, 
I should say that no proportionate change has taken place among 
the women. I often fancy 1 can trace the same " genre d'esprit" 
among them with which Madame du Deffand has made us so 
well acquainted. Fashions must change — and their fashions have 
changed, not merely in dress perhaps, but in some things which 
appear to go deeper into character, or at least into manners ; but 
the essentials are all the same. A petite maitresse is a petite 
maitresse still ; and female wit — female French wit — continues to 
be the same dazzling, playful, and powerful thing that it ever was. 
I really do not believe that if Madame de Sevigne herself were 
permitted to revisit the scene of her earthly brightness, and to find 
herself in the midst of a Paris soiree to-morrow, she would find 
any difficulty in joining the conversation of those she would 
find there, in the same tone and style that she enjoyed so keenly 
in days of yore with Madame de la Fayette, Mademoiselle Scu- 
derie, or any other sister sparkler of that glorious via lactea — pro- 
vided indeed that she did not talk politics, — on that subject she 
might not perhaps be well understood. 

Ladies still write romances, and still write verses. They write 
memoirs too, and are moreover quite as keen critics as ever they 
were ; and if they had not left off giving petits soupers, where 
they doomed the poets of the day to oblivion or immortality ac- 
cording to their will, I should say, that in no good gifts, either of 
nature or of art, had they degenerated from their admired great- 
grandmothers. 

It can hardly, I think, be accounted a change in their character, 
that where they used to converse respecting a new comedy of 
Moli^re, they now discuss the project of a new law about to be 
passed in the Chamber. The reason for this is obvious : there is 
no longer a Moliere, but there is a Chamber; there are no longer 
any new comedies greatly worth talking about, but there are 
abundance of new laws instead. 



266 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

In short, though the subjects are changed, they are canvassed 
in the same spirit ; and however much the marquis may be merged 
in the doctrinaire, the ladies at least have not left off being light, 
bright, witty, and gay, in order to become advocates for the " pos- 
itif," in opposition to the " ideal." They still keep faithful to 
their vocation of charming ; and I trust they may contrive so far 
to combat this growing passion for the " positif " in their country- 
men as to prevent their turning every salon — as they have already 
turned the Boulevards before Tortoni's — into a little Bourse. 

I was so much struck by the truth and elegance of " a thought," 
apropos to this subject, which I found the other day in turning 
over the leaves of a French lady's album, that I transcribed it : — 

" To proscribe the agreeable arts, and give encouragement only to 
those which are absolutely and exclusively useful, is to condemn 
Nature, which produces the flowers even as she produces fruits." 

This sentiment, however, simple and natural as it is, appears 
in some danger of being lost sight of while the mind is kept upon 
such a forced march as it is at present : but the unnatural obliv- 
ion cannot fall upon France while her women remain what they 
are. The graces of life will never be sacrificed by them to the 
pretended pursuit of science ; nor will a purblind examination of 
political economy be ever accepted in Paris as a beautiful speci- 
men of light reading and a firstrate effort of female genius. 

Yet nowhere are the higher efforts of the female mind more 
honoured than in France. The memory of Madame de Stael 
seems enshrined in every woman's heart, and the glory she has 
brought to her country appears to shed its beams upon every 
female in it. I have heard, too, the name of Mrs. Somerville 
pronounced with admiration and reverence by many who con- 
fessed themselves unable to appreciate, or at least to follow, the 
efforts of her extraordinary mind. 

In speaking of the women of Paris, however, I must not con- 
fine myself to the higher classes only ; for, as we all know but 
too well, " les dames de la Halle," or, as they are more familiarly 
styled, " les poissardes," have made themselves important person 
ages in the history of Paris. It is not, however, to the hideous 
part which they took in the revolution of ninety-three that I 
would allude; the doing so would be equally disagreeable and 
unnecessary, for the deeds of Alexander are hardly better known 
than their infernal acts ; — it is rather to the singular sort of re- 
spect paid to them in less stormy times that I would call your 
attention, because we have nothing analogous to it with us. Upon 
all great public occasions, such as the accession of a king, his 
restoration, or the like, these women are permitted to approach 
the throne by a deputation, and kings and queens have accepted 
iheir bouquets and listened to their harangues. The newspapers^ 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 267 

in recording these ceremonious visitings, never name these pois- 
sardes by any lesser title than " les dames de la Halle ;" a phrase 
which could only be rendered into Enghsh by " the ladies of Bil- 
ingsgate." 

These ladies have, too, a literature of their own, and have 
found troubadours among the beaux-esprits of France to chronicle 
their bons-mots, and give immortality to their adventures in that 
singular species of composition known by the name of " Chan- 
sons Grivoises." 

"When Napoleon returned from Elba, they paid their compli- 
ments to him at the Tuileries, and sang " La Carmagnole" in 
chorus. One hundred days after, they repeated the ceremony of 
a visit to the palace ; but this time the compliment was addressed 
to Louis Dix-huit, and the refrain of the song with which they 
favoured him was the famous calembourg so much in fashion at 
the time — 

W " Rendez-nous notre jiere de Gand." 

Not only do these " dames" put themselves forward upon all 
political occasions, but, if report say true, they have, parfoisy 
spite of their revolutionary ferocity, taken upon themselves to act 
as conservators of public morals. When Madame la Comtesse 
de N * * * * * and her friend Madame T * * * * * appeared in 
the garden of the Tuileries with less drapery than they thought 
decency demanded, les dames de la Halle armed themselves with 
whips, and repairing in a body to the promenade, actually flogged 
the audacious beauties till they reached the shelter of their homes. 

The influence and authority of these women among the men 
of their own rank is said to be very great ; and that, through all 
the connexions of life, as long as his mother lives, whatever be 
her rank, a Frenchman repays her early care by affection, defer- 
ence, and even by obedience. " Consolez ma pauvre mere !" has 
been reported in a thousand instances to have been the last words 
of French soldiers on the field of battle ; and whenever an aged 
female is found seated in the chimney-corner, it is to her foot- 
stool that all coaxing petitions, whether for great or small matters, 
are always carried. 

I heard it gravely disputed the other day, whether the old 
ladies of England or the old ladies of France have the most bon- 
heur en partage among them. Every one seemed to agree that it 
was a very difficult thing for a pretty woman to grow old in any 
country — that it was terrible to " become a grub after having 
been a butterfly ;" and that the only effectual way of avoiding this 
shocking transition was, while still a few years on the handsome 
side of forty, to abandon in good earnest all pretensions to beauty, 
and claiming fame and name by the perennial charm of wit alone, 
to bid defiance to time and wrinkles. 



268 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

This is certainly the best parachute to which a drooping beauty- 
can trust herself on either side of the Channel : but for one who 
can avail herself of it, there are a thousand who must submit to 
sink into eternal oblivion without it; and the question still re- 
mains, which nation best understands the art of submitting to this 
downfall gracefully. 

There are but two ways of rationally setting about it. The 
one is, to jump over the Rubicon at once at sight of the first gray 
hair, and so establish yourself betimes on a sofa, with all the 
comforts of footstool and elbow-room ; the other is, to make a 
desperate resolution never to grow old at all. Nous autres Ang- 
laises generally understand how to do the first with a respectable 
degree of resignation ; and the French, by means of some invalu- 
able secret, which they wisely keep to themselves, are enabled to 
approach very nearly to equal success in the other. 



LETTER LII. 

La Sainte Chapelle — Palais de Justice — Traces of the Revolution of 1830 — Unworthy 
use made of La Sainte Chapelle — Boileau — Ancient Records. 

A WEEK or two ago we made a vain and unprofitable expedition 
into the city for the purpose of seeing " La Sainte Chapelle ;" 
sainte to all good Catholics, from its having been built by Louis 
Neuf (St. Louis) expressly for the purpose of receiving all the 
ultra-extra-super-holy relics purchased by St. Louis from Baldwin 
Emperor of Constantinople; and almost equally sainte to us 
heretics, from having been the scene of Boileau's poem. 

Great was our disappointment at being assured, by several 
flitting officials to whom we addressed ourselves in and about Le 
Palais de Justice, that admission was not to be obtained — that 
workmen were employed upon it, and I know not what besides ; 
all, however, tending to prove that a long, lingering look at its 
beautiful exterior was all we had to hope for. 

In proportion to this disappointment was the pleasure with 
which I received an offer from a new acquaintance to conduct us 
over the Palais de Justice, and into the sacred precints of La 
Sainte Chapelle, which in fact makes a part of it. My accidental 
introduction to M. J * * * * *, who has not only shown us this, 
but many other things which we should probably never have seen 
but for his kindness, has been one of the most agreeable circum- 
stances which have occurred to me in Paris. I have seldom met 
a man so " rempli de toutes sortes d'intelligences" as is this new 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 269 

Parisian acquaintance; and certainly never received from any- 
stranger so much amiable attention, shown in so profitable a man- 
ner. I really believe he has a passe-partout for every thing that 
is most interesting and least easy of access in Paris ; and as he 
holds a high judicial situation, the Palais de Justice was of course 
open to him even to its remotest recesses : and of all the sight- 
seeing mornings I remember to have passed, the one which 
showed me this interesting edifice, with the commentary of our 
deeply-informed and most agreeable companion, was decidedly 
one of the most pleasant. There is but one drawback to the 
pleasure of having met such a man — and this is the fear that in 
losing sight of Paris we may lose sight of him also. 

The Palais de Justice is from its extent alone a very noble 
building : but its high antiquity, and its connexion with so many 
points and periods of history, render it one of the most interesting 
buildings imaginable. We entered all the courts, some of which 
appeared to be in full activity. They are in general large and 
handsome. The portrait of Napoleon was replaced in one of 
them during the Three Days, and there it still remains : the old 
Chancellor d'Auguesseau hangs opposite to him, being one of the 
few pictures permitted to retain their places. The vacant spaces, 
and in some instances the traces of violence with which others 
have been removed, indicate plainly enough that this venerable 
edifice was not held very sacred by the patriots of 1830. 

The capricious fury of the sovereign people during this reign 
of confusion, if not of terror, has left vestiges in almost every part 
of the building. The very interesting bassrelief which 1 remem- 
ber on the pedestal of the fine statue of Malesherbes, the intrepid 
defender of Louis Seize, has been torn away ; and the hrute 
masonry which it has left displayed is as striking and appropriate 
a memento of the spoilers, as the graphic group they displaced 
was of the scene it represented. M. J * * * * * told me the 
sculpture was not destroyed, and would probably be replaced. I 
heartily hope, for the honour of Frenchmen, that this may happen : 
but if it should not, I trust that, for the sake of historic effect, the 
statue and its mutilated pedestal will remain as they are — both the 
one and the other mark an epoch in the history of France. 

But it was in the obscurer parts of the building that I found the 
most interest. In order to take a short cut to some point to which 
our kind guide wished to lead us, we were twisted through one 
of the old — the very old towers of this venerable structure. It 
had been, I think they said, the kitchen of St. Louis himself; and 
the walls, as seen by the enormous thickness pierced for the win- 
dows, are substantial enough to endure another six hundred years 
at least. 

In one of the numerous rooms which we entered, we saw an 



S70 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

extremely curious old picture, seized in the time of Louis Quinze 
from the Jesuits, as containing proof of their treasonable dis- 
respect for kings : and certainly there is not wanting evidence of 
the fact ; very speaking portraits of Henry the Third and Henry 
the Fourth are to be found most unequivocally on their way to the 
infernal regions. The whole performance is one of the most in- 
teresting specimens of Jesuitical ingenuity extant. 

Having fully indulged our curiosity in the palace, we proceeded 
to the chapel. It is exquisitely beautiful, and so perfect in its 
delicate proportions, that the eye is satisfied, and dwells with full 
contentment on the whole for many minutes before the judgment 
is at leisure to examine and criticise the different parts 'of it. But 
even when this first effect is over, the perfect elegance of this 
diminutive structure still rests upon the mind, producing a degree 
of admiration which seems disproportioned to its tiny dimensions. 

It was built for a shrine in which to preserve relics ; and Pierre 
de Montreuil, its able architect, appears to have sought rather to 
render it worthy by its richness and its grace to become the 
casket for those holy treasures, than to give it the dignity of a 
church. That beautiful miniature cathedral, St. George's Chapel 
at Windsor, is an enormous edifice compared to this ; but less 
light, less lofty in its proportions — in short, less enchanting in its 
general effect, than the lovely bijou of St. Louis. 

Of all the cruel profanations I have ever beheld, that of turning 
this exquisite chef-d'oeuvre into a chest for old records is the most 
unpardonable : as if Paris could not f"urnish four walls and a roof 
for this purpose, without converting this precious chasse to it ! It 
is indeed a pitiful economy ; and were I the Archbishop of Paris, 
I would besiege the Tuileries with petitions that these hideous 
presses might be removed ; and if it might not be restored to 
the use of the church, that we might at least say of it — 

" la Sainte Chapelle 



Conservait du vieux terns I'oisivete fidelle." 

This would at least be better than seeing it converted into a cup- 
board of ease to the overflowing records of the Palais de Justice. 
The length of this pretty reliquaire exactly equals its height, 
which is divided by a gallery into a lower and upper church, re- 
sembling in some degree as to its arrangement the much older 
structure at Aix-la- Chapelle, — the high minister there being rep- 
resented by the Sainte Couronne here. 

As we stood in the midst of the floor of the church, M.J***** 
pointed to a certain spot — 

" Et bientot Le Lutrin se fait voir k nos yeux." 

He placed me to stand where that offensive mass of timber stood 
of yore ; and I could not help thinking that if the poor chantre 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 271 

hated the sight of it as much as I did that of the ignoble cases 
containing the old parchments, he was exceedingly right in doing 
his utmost to make it disappear. 

Boileau lies buried here. The spot must have been chosen in 
consequence of the connexion he had established in the minds of 
all men between himself and its holy precincts. But it was 
surely the most lively and light-hearted connexion that ever was 
hallowed by so solemn a result. One might fairly steal or parody 
Vanburgh's epitaph for him — 

" Rise graceful o'er him, roof ! for he 
Raised many a graceful verse to thee." 

The preservation of the beautiful painted glass of the windows 
through the two revolutions which (both of them) were so busy 
in labours of metamorphosis and destruction in the immediate 
neighbourhood, not to mention all the ordinary chances against the 
safety of so frail a treasure during so many years, is little short of 
miraculous ; and, considering the extraordinary sanctity of the 
place, it is probably so interpreted by lesjideles. 

A remarkable proof of the reverence in which this little shrine 
was held, in consequence, I presume, of the relics it contained, 
may be found in the dignified style of its establishment. Kings 
and popes seem to' have felt a holy rivalry as to which should 
most distinguish it by gifts and privileges. The wealth of its 
functionaries appears greatly to have exceeded the bounds of 
Christian moderation ; and their pride of place was sustained, 
notwithstanding the petitesse of their dominions, by titles and pre- 
rogatives such as no chapelains ever had before. The chief dig- 
nitary of the establishment had the title of archichapelain ; and, 
in 1379, Pope Clement VII. permitted him to wear a mitre, and 
to pronounce his benediction on the people when they were as- 
sembled during any of the processions which took place within the 
enclosure of the palace. Not only, indeed, did this archchaplain 
take the title of prelate, but in some public acts he is styled " Le 
Pape de la Sainte Chapelle." In return for all these riches and 
honours, four out of the seven priests attached to the establish- 
ment were obliged to pass the night in the chapel, for the purpose 
of watching the relics. Nevertheless, it appears that, in the year 
1575, a portion of the vraie croix was stolen in the night between 
the 19th and 20lh of May. The thief, however, was strongly 
suspected to be no less a personage than King Henry III. him- 
self: who, being sorely distressed for money, and knowing from 
old experience that a traffic in relics was a right royal traffic, 
bethought him of a means of extracting a little Venetian gold 
from this true cross, by leaving it in pawn with the Republic of 
Venice. At any rate, this much-esteemed fragment disappeared 
from the Sainte Chapelle, and a piece of the holy rood was left 
en gage with the Venetians by Henry III. 



272 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

I have transcribed, for your satisfaction, the Ust I find in Du- 
laure of the most sacred of the articles for the reception of which 
this chapel was erected : — 

" A quantity of the blood of Jesus Christ. 

" The swaddling-clothes in which our Saviour was wrapped 
while an infant. 

"A quantity of the blood mysteriously shed by an image of 
our Saviour, on being struck by an infidel. 

" The chain and ring of iron with which our Saviour was bound. 

" The sacred towel or napkin, with an impression of the Sa- 
viour's face. 

" Some milk of the Virgin Mary. 

" The rod of Moses." 

Is it not wonderful that the Emperor of Constantinople could 
consent to part with such precious treasures for the lucre of gain ? 
I should like to know what has become of them all. 

As late as the year 1770, the annual ceremony of turning out 
devils on Good-Friday, from persons pretending to be possessed, 
was performed in this chapel. The form prescribed was very 
simple, and always found to answer perfectly. As soon as it was 
understood that all the demoniacs were assembled, le grand chan- 
tre appeared, carrying a cross, which, spite of King Henry's 
supercherie, was declared to enclose in its inmost recesses a mor- 
sel of the vraie croix, and in an instant all the contortions and 
convulsions ceased, and the possessed became perfectly calm and 
tranquil, and relieved from every species of inconvenience. 

Having seen all that this lovely chapel had to show, and par- 
ticularly examined the spot where the battle of the books took 
place, the passe-partout ofM.J***** caused a mysterious- 
looking little door in the Sainte Couronne to open for us ; and, 
after a little climbing, we found ourselves just under the roof of 
the Palais de Justice. The enormous space of the grande salle 
below is here divided into three galleries, each having its entire 
length, and one third of its width. The manner in which these 
galleries are constructed is extremely curious and ingenious, and 
well deserves a careful examination. I certainly never found my- 
self in a spot of grater interest than this. The enormous collec- 
tion of records which fill these galleries, arranged as they are in 
the most exquisite order, is one of the most marvellous specta- 
cles I ever beheld. 

Amid the archives of so many centuries, any document that 
may be wished for, however remote or however minute, is brought 
forward in an instant, with as little diflSculty as Dr. Drbdin would 
find in putting his hand upon the best-known treasure in Lord 
Spencer's library. 

Our kind friend obtained for us the sight of the volume con- 
taining all the original documents respecting the tri^l of poor Joan 



3PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 273 

of Arc, that most ill-used of heroines. Vice never braved danger 
and met death with such steady, unwavering courage as she dis- 
played. We saw, too, the fatal warrant which legalized the sav- 
age murder of this brave and innocent fanatic. 

Several other death-warrants of distinguished persons were also 
shown to us, some of them of great antiquity ; but no royal hand 
had signed them. This painful duty is performed in France by 
one of the superior law-officers of the crown, but never by the 
hand of majesty. 

Another curious trial that was opened for our satisfaction was 
that of the wretched Marquise de Brinvilhers, the famous empoi- 
sonneuse, who not only destroyed father, brother, husband, at the 
instigation of her lover, but appears to have used her power of 
compounding fatal drugs upon many other occasions. The mur^ 
derous atrocities of this woman seem to surpass every thing on 
record, except those of Marguerite de Bourgogne, the inconceiva- 
ble heroine of the " Tour de Nesle." 

I was amused by an anecdote which M. J * * * * * told me of 
an Englishman to whom he, some years ago, showed these same 
curious papers — among which is the receipt used by Madame de 
Brinvilhers for the composition of the poison whose effects plunged 
Paris in terror. 

" Will you do me the favour to let me copy this receipt ?" said 
the Englishman. 

" I think that my privilege does not reach quite so far as that,'* 
was the discreet reply ; and but for this, our countryman's love 
for chymical science might by this time have spread the knowl* 
edge of the precious secret over the whole earth. 



LETTER LIIL 

French ideas of England — ^Making love — Precipitate retreat of a young Frenchman—* 
Different methods of arranging Marriages — EugUsh Divorce — English Restauransi 

It now and then happens, by a lucky chance, that one finds 
one's self full gallop in a conversation the mostperfectly unreservedj 
without having had the slightest idea or intention, when it began^ 
of either giving or receiving confidence. 

This occurred to me a few days ago, while making a morning 
visit to a lady whom I had never seen but twice before, and then 
had not exchanged a dozen words with her. But, upon this occa^ 
sion, we found ourselves very nearly tete-^-tete, and got, I know 
not how, into a most unrestrained discussion upon the peculiarities 
of our respective countries. 

S 



274 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Madame B * * * has never been in England, but she assured • 
me that her curiosity to visit our country is quite as strong as the 
passion for investigation which drew Robinson Crusoe from his 
home to visit the " 

" Savages," said I, finishing the sentence for her. 

" No ! no ! no ! To visit all that is most curious in the 

world." 

This phrase, " most curious," seemed to me of doubtful mean- 
ing, and so I told her ; asking whether it referred to the museums 
or the natives. 

She seemed doubtful for a moment whether she should be frank 
or otherwise ; and then, with so pretty and playful a manner as 
must, I think, have disarmed the angry nationality of the most 
thin-skinned patriot alive, she answered — 

" Well, then — the natives." 

" But we take such good care," I replied," that you should not 
want specimens of the race to examine and make experiments 
upon, that it would hardly be worth your while to cross the Chan- 
nel for the sake of seeing the natives. We import ourselves in 
such prodigious quantities, that I can hardly conceive you should 
have any curiosity left about us." 

" On the contrary," she replied, " my curiosity is only the more 
piquee : I have seen so many delightful English persons here, that 
I die to see them at home, in the midst of all those singular cus- 
toms, which they cannot bring with them, and which we only 
know by the imperfect accounts of travellers." 

This sounded, I thought, very much as if she were talking of the 
good people of Mongo Creek or Karakoo Bay ; but being at least 
as curious to know what her notions were concerning the English 
in their remote homes, and in the midst of all their " singular cus- 
toms," as she could be to become better acquainted with them, I 
did my best to make her tell me all she had heard about us. 

" I will tell you," she said, " what I want to see beyond every 
thing else : I want to see the mode of making love tout-a-fait d 
VAnglaise. You know that you are all so polite as to put on our 
fashions here in every respect ; but a cousin of mine, who was 
some years ago attached to our embassy at London, has described 
the style of managing love affairs as so ... so romantic, that it 
perfectly enchanted me, and I would give the world to see how it 
was done {comment cela se fait).''^ 

"Pray tell me how he described it," said I, "and I promise 
faithfully to tell you if the picture be correct." 

" Oh, that is so kind ! . . . Well, then," she continued, colour- 
ing a little, from the idea, as I suppose, that she was going to say 
something terribly atrocious, " I will tell you exactly what hap- 
pened to him. He had a letter of introduction to a gendeman of 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 275 

great estate — a member of the chamber of your parliament, who 
was living with his family at his chateau in one of the provinces, 
where my cousin forwarded the letter to him. A most polite reply 
was immediately returned, containing a pressing invitation to my 
cousin to come to the chateau without delay, and pass a month 
with them for the hunting season. Nothing could be more agree- 
able than this invitation, for it offered the best possible opportunity 
of studying the manners of the country. Every one can cross from 
Calais to Dover, and spend half their year's income in walking or 
driving through the long wide streets of London for six weeks ; 
but there are very few, you know, wrho obtain an entree to the 
chateaux of the noblesse. In short, my cousin was enchanted, and 
set off immediately. He arrived just in time to arrange his toi- 
let before dinner ; and when he entered the salon, he was perfectly 
dazzled by the exceeding beauty of the three daughters of his host, 
who were all decolleUes, and full-dressed, he says, exactly as if 
they were going to some very elegant bal pare. There was no 
other company, and he felt a little startled at being received in such 
a ceremonious style. 

The young ladies all performed on the pianoforte and harp, and 
my cousin, who is very musical, was in raptures. Had not his 
admiration been too equally drawn to each, he assures me that be- 
fore the end of that evening he must inevitably have been the con- 
quest of one. The next morning, the whole family met again at 
breakfast : the young ladies were as charming as ever, but still he 
felt in doubt as to which he admired most. While he was exert- 
ing himself to be as agreeable as he could, and talking to them 
all with the timid respect with which demoiselles are always ad^ 
dressed by Frenchmen, the father of the family startled and cer- 
tainly almost alarmed my cousin by suddenly saying — " We can- 
not hunt to-day, mon ami, for I have business which will keep me 
at home ; but you shall ride into the woods with Elizabeth : she 
will show you my pheasants. Get ready, Elizabeth, to attend 
Monsieur !" 

Madame B * * * stopped short, and looked at me as if expect^ 
ing that I should make some observation. 

*'Well?" said I. 

" Well !" she repeated, laughing ; " then you really find nothing 
extraordinary in this proceeding — nothing out of the common way ?" 

" In what respect ?" said I : " what is it that you suppose was 
out of the common way ?" 

" That question," said she, clasping her hands in an ecstasy at 
having made the discovery — *' That question puts me more au fait 
than any thing else you could say to me. It is the strongest pos- 
sible proof that what happened to my cousin was in truth nothing 
more than what is of every-day occurrence in England." 

S2 



276 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

" What did happen to him ?" 

" Have I not told you ? The father of the young ladies, 

whom he so greatly admired, selected one of them, and desired my 
cousin to attend her on an excursion into the woods. My dear 
madame national manners vary so strangely .... I be- 
seech you not to suppose that I imagine that every thing may not 
be exceedingly well arranged notwithstanding. My cousin is a 
very distinguished young man — excellent character — good name — 
and will have his father's estate only the manner is so dif- 
ferent " 

" Did your cousin accompany the young lady ?" said I. 

" No, he did not — he returned to London immediately." 

.This was said so gravely — so more than gravely — with an air 
of so much more meaning than she thought it civil to express, that 
my gravity and politeness gave way together, and I laughed most 
heartily. 

My amiable companion, however, did not take it amiss — she 
only laughed with me ; and when we had recovered our gravity, 
she said, " So you find my cousin very ridiculous for throwing up 
the party ? — un peu timide, peut-etre V 

" Oh no !" I replied — " only a little hasty." 

'' Hasty ! . . . . Mais que voulez-vous ? You do not seem to 
comprehend his embarrassment." 

" Perhaps not fully ; but I assure you his embarrassment would 
have ceased altogether, had he trusted himself with the young lady 
and her attendant groom : I doubt not that she would have led the 
way through one of our beautiful pheasant preserves, which are 
exceedingly well worth seeing ; but most certainly she would have 
been greatly astonished, and much embarrassed in her turn, had 
your cousin taken it into his head to make love to her." 

" You are in earnest ?" said she, looking in my face with an air 
of great interest. 

"Indeed I am," I replied; "I am very seriously in earnest; 
and though I know not the persons of whom we have been speak- 
ing, I can venture to assure you positively, that it was only be- 
cause no gentleman so well recommended as your cousin could 
be suspected of abusing the confidence reposed in him, that this 
English father permitted him to accompany the young lady in her 
morning ride." 

*' C'est done un trait sublime !" she exclaimed : " what noble 
confidence — what confiding honour ! It is enough to remind one 
of the 'paladins of old." 

" I suspect you are quizzing our confiding simplicity," said I ; 
" but, at any rate, do not suspect me of quizzing you- — for I have 
told you nothing more than a very simple and certain fact." 

" I doubt it not the least in the world," she replied ; " but 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 277 

you are indeed, as I observed at first, superiorly romantic." She 
appeared to meditate for a moment, and then added, " Mais dites 

moi un peu is not this a little inconsistent with the stories 

we read in the ' novels of fashionable life' respecting the manner 
in which husbands are acquired for the young ladies of England ? 
.... You refuse yourselves, you know, the privilege of dispo- 
sing of your daughters in marriage according to the mutual inter- 
ests of the parties ; and therefore, as young ladies must be mar- 
ried, it follows that some other means must be resorted to by the 
parents. All Frenchmen know this, and they may perhaps for that 
reason be sometimes too easily induced to imagine that it is in- 
tended to lead them into marriage by captivating their senses. 
This is so natural an inference, that you really must forgive it." 

" I forgive it perfectly," I replied ; " but as we have agreed not 
to mystify each other, it would not be fair to leave you in the be- 
lief, that it is the custom, in order to ' acquire' husbands for the 
young ladies, that they should be sent on love-making expeditions 
into the woods with the premier venu. But what you have said 
enables me to understand a passage which I was reading the other 
day in a French story, and which puzzled me most exceedingly. 
It was on the subject of a young girl who had been forsaken by 
her lover; and some one, reproaching him for his conduct, uses, I 
think, these words : ' After having compromised her reputation, as 
much as it is possible to compromise the reputation of a young 
miss — which is not an easy thing to do in fortunate England . . .' 
This puzzled me more than I can express ; because, the fact is, that 
we consider the compromising the reputation of a young lady as 
so tremendous a thing, that excepting in novels, where neither na- 
tional manners nor natural probabilities are permitted to check the 
necessary accumulation of misery on the head of a heroine, it 
NEVER occurs ; and this, not because nothing can compromise her, 
but because nothing that can compromise her is ever permitted, 
or, I might almost say, ever attempted. Among the lower orders, 
indeed, stories of seduction are but too frequent ; but our present 
examination of national manners refers only to the middle and 
higher classes of society." 

Madame B * * * listened to me with the most earnest attention ; 
and, after I had ceased speaking, she remained silent, as if medi- 
tating on what she had heard. At length she said, in a tone of 
much more seriousness than she had yet used, — " I am quite sure 
that every word you say is parfaitement exact — your manner per- 
suades me that you are speaking neither with exaggeration nor in 
jest : cependant .... I cannot conceal from you my astonish- 
ment at your statement. The received opinion among us is, that 
private and concealed infidelities among married women are prob- 
ably less frequent in England than in France — because it seems 



278 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

to be essentially dans vos mcBurs de faire un grand scandale 
whenever such a circumstance occurs ; and this, with the penal- 
ties annexed to it, undoubtedly acts as a prevention. But, on the 
other hand, it is universally considered as a fact, that you are as 
lenient to the indiscretions of unmarried ladies, as severe to those 
of the married ones. Tell me- — is there not some truth in this 
idea ?" 

'' Not the least in the world, I do assure you. On the con- 
trary, I am persuaded that in no country is there any race of 
women from whom such undeviating purity and propriety of con- 
duct are demanded as from the unmarried women of England. 
Slander cannot attach to them, because it is as well known as 
that a Jew is not qualified to sit in parliament, that a single 
woman suspected of indiscretion immediately dies a civil death — 
she sinks out of society, and is no more heard of ; and it is there- 
fore that I have ventured to say, that a compromised reputation 
among the unmarried ladies of England never occurs." 

"We have laboured under a great mistake, then, upon this 
subject, we French people ;" said Madame B * * *. ^' But the 
single ladies no longer young ?" she continued ;^— " forgive me . . . 
but is it really supposed that they pass their entire lives with- 
out any indiscretion at all V 

This question was asked in a tone of such utter incredulity as 
to the possibility of a reply in the affirmative, that I again lost my 
gravity, and laughed heartily ; but, after a moment, I assured her 
very seriously that such was most undoubtedly the case. 

The naive manner in which she exclaimed in reply, " Est-il 
possible !" might have made the fortune of a young actress. 
There was, however, no acting in the case ; Madame B * * * 
was most perfectly unaffected in her expression of surprise, and 
assured me that it would be shared by all Frenchwomen who 
should be so fortunate as to find occasion, like herself, to receive 
such information from indisputable authority. "I doubt very 
much, however," she added, laughing, " whether you would find 
the gentlemen so easy of belief." 

We pursued our conversation much farther ; but were I to re- 
peat the whole, you would only find it contained many repetitions 
of the same fact^namely, that a very strong persuasion exists in 
France, among those who are not personally well acquainted with 
English manners, that the mode in which marriages are arranged, 
rather by the young people themselves than by their relatives, 
produces an effect upon the conduct of our unmarried females 
which is not only as far as possible from the truth, but so prepos- 
terously so, as never to have entered into any English head to 
imagine. 

So few opportunities for any thing approaching to intimac^j 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 279 

between French and English women arise, that it is not very easy 
for us to find out exactly what their real opinion is concerning us. 
Nothing in Madame B * * *'s manner could lead me to suspect 
that any feeling of reprobation or contempt mixed itself with her 
belief respecting the extraordinary license which she supposed 
was accorded to unmarried women. Nothing could be more in- 
dulgent than her tone of commentary on ovlx national peculiarities, 
as she called them. The only theme which elicited an expres- 
sion of harshness from her was the manner in which divorces 
were obtained and paid for : " Take money in payment for such 
an adventure ! publish a scandal so ridiculous, so wounding to 
one's self-love, so hostile to good manners ! To receive money 
in such a case was," she said, " perfectly incomprehensible in a 
nation so poHshed and sensible as the Enghsh." 

I did my best to defend our mode of proceeding in such cases 
upon the principles of justice and morality ; but French prejudices 
on this point are too inveterate to be shaken by any eloquence of 
mine. We parted, however, the best friends in the world, and 
mutually grateful for the information we had received. 

This conversation only furnished one, among several instances, 
in which I have been astonished to discover the many popular 
errors which are still current in France respecting England. 
Can we fairly doubt that, in many cases where we consider our- 
selves as perfectly well-informed, we may be quite as much in 
the dark respecting them ? It is certain that the habit so general 
among us of flying over to Paris for a week or two every now and 
then, must have made a great number of individuals acquainted with 
the external aspect of France between Calais and Paris, and also 
with all the most conspicuous objects of the capital itself — its 
churches and its theatres, its little river and its great coffee- 
houses : but it is an extremely small proportion of these flying 
travellers who ever enter into any society beyond what they may 
encounter in public ; and to all such, France can be very little better 
known than England is to those who content themselves with 
perusing the descriptions we give of ourselves in our novels and 
newspapers. 

Of the small advance made towards obtaining information by 
such visits as these, I have had many opportunities of judging for 
myself, both among English and French, but never more satisfac- 
torily than at a dinner-party at the house of an old widow lady, 
who certainly understands our language perfectly, and appears to 
me to read more English books, and to be more interested about 
their authors, than almost any one I ever met with. She has 
never crossed the Channel, however, and has rather an overween- 
ing degree of respect for such of her countrymen as have enjoyed 
the privilege of looking at us face to face on our own soil. 



280 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

The day I dined with her, one of these travelled gentlemen was 
led up and presented to me as a person well acquainted with my 
country. His name w^as placed on the cover next to the one 
destined for me at table, and it was evidently intended that we 
should derive our principal amusement from the conversation of 
each other. As I never saw him before or since, as I never expect 
to see him again, and as I do not even remember his name, I think 
I am guihy of no breach of confidence by repeating to you a few 
of the ideas upon England which he had acquired on his travels. 

His first remark after we were placed at table was, — "You 
do not, I think, use table-napkins in England ; — do you not 
find them rather embarrassing ?" The next was, — " I observed 
during my stay in England that it is not the custom to eat soup : 
1 hope, however, that you do not find it disagreeable to your pal- 
ate ?".... " You have, I think, no national cuisine ?" was the 
third observation ; and upon this singularity in our manners he 
was eloquent. " Yet, after all," said he, consolingly, " France is 
in fact the only country which has one : Spain is too oily — Italy too 
spicy. We have sent artists into Germany ; but this cannot be said 
to constitute une cuisine nationale. Pour dire vrai, however, the 
rosbif of England is hardly more scientific than the sun-dried meat 
of the Tartars. A Frenchman would be starved in England did 
he not light upon one of the imported artists, — and, happily for 
travellers, this is no longer difficult." 

" Did you dine much in private society ?" said I. 

" No, I did not : my time was too constantly occupied to permit 
my doing so." 

"We have some very good hotels, however, in London." 

" But no tables d'hote !" he replied, with a shrug. " I did very 
well, nevertheless ; for I never permitted myself to venture any- 
where for the purpose of dining excepting to your celebrated 
Leicester Square. It is the most fashionable part of London, I 
believe ; or, at least, the only fashionable restaurans are to be 
found there." 

I ventured very gently to hint that there were other parts of 
London more k-la-mode, and many hotels which had the reputa- 
tion of a better cuisine than any which could be found in Leices- 
ter Square ; but the observation appeared to displease the traveller, 
and the belle harmonic which it was intended should subsist 
between us was evidently shaken thereby, for I heard him say in 
a half whisper to the person who sat on the other side of him„ 
and who had been attentively listening to our discourse, — " Pas 
exact . . . ." 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 281 



LETTER LIV. 



Mixed Society— Influence of the English Clergy and their Families— Importance of their 
station in Society. 

Though I am still of opinion that French society, properly so 
called, — that is to say, the society of the educated ladies and 
gentlemen of France, — is the most graceful, animated, and fasci- 
nating in the world ; I think, nevertheless, that it is not as perfect 
as it might be, were a little more exclusiveness permitted in the 
formation of it. 

No one can be really well acquainted with good society in this 
country without being convinced that there are both men and 
women to be found in it who to the best graces add the best virtues 
of social life ; but it is equally impossible to deny, that admirable 
as are some individuals of the circle, they all exercise a degree of 
toleration to persons less estimable, which, when some well- 
authenticated anecdotes are made known to us, is, to say the least 
of it, very startling to the feelings of those who are not to this 
easy manner either born or bred. 

To look into the hearts of all who form either a Parisian or a 
London lady's visiting-list, in order to discover of what stuff each 
individual be made, would not perhaps be very wise, and is luckily 
quite impossible. Nothing at all approaching to such a scrutiny 
can be reasonably wished or expected from those who open their 
doors for the reception of company ; but where society is perfectly 
well ordered, no one of either sex, I think, whose outward and 
visible conduct has brought upon them the eyes of all and the 
reprobation of the good, should be admitted. 

That such are admitted much more freely in France than in 
England, cannot be denied ; and though there are many who con- 
scientiously keep aloof from such intercourse, and more who mark 
plainly enough that there is a distance in spirit even where there 
is vicinity of person, still I think it is greatly to be regretted that 
such a leaven of disunion should ever be suffered to insinuate 
itself into meetings which would be so infinitely more agreeable 
as well as more respectable without it. 

One reason, I doubt not, why there is less exclusiveness and 
severity of selection in the forming a circle here is, that there are 
no individuals, or rather no class of individuals, in the wide circle 
which constitutes what is called en grand the society of Paris, who 
could step forward with propriety and say, " This may not fee." 

With us, happily, the case is as yet different. The clergy of 



282 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

England, their matronly wives and highly-educated daughters, 
form a distinct caste, to which there is nothing that answers in the 
whole range of continental Europe. In this caste, however, are 
mingled a portion of every other ; yet it has a dignity and aristoc- 
racy of its own : and in this aristocracy are blended the high blood 
of the noble, the learning which has in many instances sufficed 
to raise to a level with it the obscure and needy, and the piety 
which has given station above either to those whose unspotted 
lives have marked them out as pre-eminent in the holy profession 
they have chosen. 

While such men as these mingle freely in society, as they con- 
stantly do in England, and bring with them the females who form 
their families, there is little danger that notorious vice should 
choose to obtrude itself. 

It will hardly be denied, I believe, that many a frail fair one, 
who would boldly push her way among ermine and coronets where 
the mitre was not, would shrink from parading her doubtful hon- 
ours where it was : and it is equally certain, that many a thought- 
less, easy, careless giver of fine parties has been prevented from 
filling up her constellation of beauties because " It is impossible 
to have Lady This, or Mrs. That, when the bishop and his family 
are expected." 

Nor is this wholesome influence confined to the higher ranks 
alone ; — the rector of the parish — nay, even his young curate, with 
a smooth cheek and almost unrazored chin, will in humbler circles 
produce the same effect. In short, wherever an English clergy- 
gyman or an English clergyman's family appears, there decency 
is in presence, and the canker of known and tolerated vice is not. 

Whenever we find ourselves weary of this restraint, and anx- 
ious to mix (unshackled by the silent rebuke of such a presence) 
with whatever may be most attractive to the eye or amusing to 
the spirit, let the stamp of vice be as notorious upon it as it may, 
whenever we reach this state, it will be the right and proper time 
to pass the Irish Church Bill. 

These meditations have been thrust upon me by the reply I re- 
ceived in answer to a question whicb I addressed to a lady of my 
acquaintance at a party the other evening. 

" Who is that very elegant4ooking woman ?" said I. 

" It is Madame de C * * * * *," was the reply. " Have you 
never met her before ? She is very much in society ; one sees 
her everywhere." 

I replied, that I had seen her once or twice before, but had never 
learned her name ; adding, that it was not only her name I was 
anxious to learn, but something about her. She looked like a 
personage, a heroine, a sibyl : in short, it was one of those heads 
and busts that one seems to have the same right to stare at, as at 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 283 

a fine picture or statue ; they appear a part of the decorations, only 
they excite a little more interest and curiosity. 

" Can you not tell me something of her character ?" said I : " I 
never saw so picturesque a figure ; I could fancy that the spirit of 
Titian had presided at her toilet." 

" It was only the spirit of coquetry, I suspect," answered my 
friend, with a smile. " But, if you are so anxious to know her, I 
can give you her character and history in very few words : — she 
is rich, high-born, intellectual, political, and unchaste." 

I do not think I started ; I should be shocked to believe myself 
so unfit for a salon as to testify surprise thus openly at any thing ; 
but my friend looked at me and laughed. 

" You are astonished at seeing her here ? But I have told you 
that you may expect to meet her everywhere ; except, indeed, 
chez moi, and at a few exceedingly rococo houses besides." 

As the lady I was talking to happened to be an Englishworiian, 
though for many years a resident in Paris, I ventured to hint the 
surprise I felt that a person known to be what she described 
Madame de C * * * * * should be so universally received in good 
society. 

" It is very true," she replied : " it is surprising, and more so to 
me perhaps than to you, because I know thoroughly well the irre- 
proachable character and genuine worth of many who receive her. 
I consider this/' she continued, "as one of the most singular traits 
in Parisian society. If, as many travellers have most falsely in- 
sinuated, the women of Paris were generally corrupt and licen- 
tious, there would be nothing extraordinary in it : but it is not so. 
Where neither the husband, the relatives, the servants, nor any 
one else, has any wish or intention of discovering or exposing the 
frailty of a wife, it is certainly impossible to say that it may not 
often exist without being either known or suspected : but with 
this, general society cannot interfere ; and those whose temper or 
habits of mind lead them to suspect evil wherever it is possible 
that it may be concealed, may often lose the pleasure of friend- 
ship founded on esteem, solely because it is possible that some 
hidden faults may render their neighbour unworthy of it. That 
such tempers are not often to be found in France, is certainly no 
proof of the depravity of national manners ; but where notorious 
irregularity of conduct has brought a woman fairly before the bar 
of public opinion, it does appear to me very extraordinary that 
such a person as our hostess, and very many others equally irre- 
proachable, should receive her." 

" I presume," said I, " that Madame de C ***** is not the 
only person towards whom this remarkable species of tolerance is 
exercised ?" 

^' Certainly not. There are many others whose liaisons are as 



284 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

well known as hers, who are also admitted into the best society. 
But observe — I know no instance where such are permitted to 
enter within the narrower circle of intimate domestic friendship. 
No one in Paris seems to think that society has any right to ex- 
amine into the private history of all the elegantes who fill its sa- 
lons ; but I believe they take as good care to know the friends 
whom they admit to the intimacy of their private hours as we do. 
There, however, this species of decorum ends ; and they would 
no more turn back from entering a room where they saw Madame 
de C * * * * *, than a London lady would drive away from the 
opera because she saw the carriage of Lady at the door." 

" There is no parallel, however, between the cases," said I. 

" No, certainly," she replied ; '* but it is not the less certain 
that the Parisians appear to think otherwise." 

Now it appears evident to me, that all this arises much less 
from general licentiousness of morals than from general easiness 
of temper. Sans Souci is the darling device of the whole nation . 
and how can this be adhered to, if they set about the very arduous 
task of driving out of society all those who do not deserve to be in 
it ? But while feeling sincerely persuaded, as I really do, that this 
difference in the degree of moral toleration practised by the two 
countries does not arise from any depravity in the French charac- 
ter, I cannot but think that our mode of proceeding in this respect 
is infinitely better. It is more conducive, not only to virtue, but 
to agreeable and unrestrained intercourse ; and for this reason, if 
for no other, it is deeply our interest to uphold with all possible 
reverence and dignity that class whose presence is of itself sufii- 
cient to guaranty at least the reputation of propriety, in every 
circle in which they appear. 

Though not very germane to Paris and the Parisians, which I 
promised should make the subjects of my letters as long as I re- 
mained among them, I cannot help observing how utterly this 
most important influence would be destroyed in the higher circles 
— which will ever form the model of those below them — if the 
riches, rank, and worldly honours of this class are wrested from 
them. It is indeed very certain that a clergyman, whether bishop, 
priest, or deacon, may perform the duty of a minister in the desk, 
at the altar, or in the pulpit, though he has to walk home after- 
ward to an humble dwelling and an humble meal : he may per- 
form this duty well, and to the entire satisfaction of the rich and 
great, though his poverty may prevent him from ever taking his 
place among them ; but he may not — he cannot, while such is 
the station allotted him, produce that ej0fect on society, and exert 
that influence on the morals of the people, which he would do 
were his temporal place and power such as to exalt him in the 
eyes even of the most worldly. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 285 

Amid all the varieties of cant to which it is the destiny of the 
present age to listen, there is none which I endure with so little pa- 
tience as that which preaches the " humility of the church.^'' Were 
there the shadow of reason or logic in the arguments for the deg- 
radation of the clergy drawn from the Scriptures, they must go 
the length of showing that, in order to follow the example of the 
Great Master, they must all belong to the class of carpenters and 
fishermen. Could we imagine another revelation of the Divinity 
accorded to man, it would be natural enough to conceive that the 
rich gift of direct inspiration should be again given to those who 
had neither learning, knowledge, pride, nor power of any kind, to 
combat or resist, to explain or to weaken, the communication 
which it was their duty simply to record and spread abroad. But 
the eternal word of God once delivered, does it follow that those 
who are carefully instructed in all the various learning which can 
assist in giving strength and authority to the propagation of it 
should alone, of all the sons of men, be for ever doomed to the 
lower walks of social life in order to imitate the humility of the 
Saviour of the world ? 

I know not if there be more nonsense or blasphemy in this. 
The taking the office of preaching his own blessed will to man 
was an act of humility in God ; but the taking upon themselves to 
instruct their fellow-men in the law thus solemnly left us, is a great 
assumption of dignity in men — and where the offices it imposes 
are well performed, it becomes one of ihe first duties of the believ- 
ers in the doctrine they have made it their calling to expound, to 
honour them with such honour as mortals can understand and value. 
If any one be found who does not perform the duties of this high 
calling in the best manner which bis ability enables him to do, let 
him be degraded as he deserves ; but while he holds it, let him not 
be denied the dignity of state and station to which all his fellow- 
citizens in their different walks aspire, in order, forsooth, to keep him 
hu?nble ! Humble, indeed — yea, humbled to the dust, will our long- 
venerated church and its insulted ministers be, if its destiny and 
their fortune be left at the mercy of those who have lately under- 
taken to legislate for them. I often feel a sort of vapourish, vague 
uncertainty of disbelief, as I read the records of what has been 
passing in the House of Commons on this subject. I cannot 
realize it, as the Americans say, that the majority of the English 
parliament should consent to be led blindfold upon such a point as 
this, by a set of lowborn, ignorant, bullying papists. I hope, when 
I return to England, I shall awake and find that it is not so. 

And now forgive me for this long digression : I will write to you 
to-morrow upon something as essentially French as possible, to 
make up for it. 



S86 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER LV. 

Le Grand Op4ra — Its enormous Expense — Its Fashion — Its acknowledged Dulness — " Li 
Juive" — Its heavy Music — Its exceeding splendour — Beautiful management of the 
Scenery — National Music^ 

Can I better keep the promise I gave you yesterday than by 
writing you a letter of and concerning le grand opera ? Is there 
any thing in the world so perfectly French as this ? Something 
like their pretty opera comique may exist elsewhere ; we have 
our comic opera, and Italy has her buffa ; the opera Italien, too, 
may be rather more than rivalled at the Haymarket : but where 
out of Paris are we to look for any thing like the Academic Royale 
de Musique ? . . . . le grand opera ? . . . . I'opera par excel- 
lence ?-^I may safely answer, nowhere. 

It is an institution of which the expenses are so enormous, that 
though it is more constantly and fully attended perhaps than any 
other theatre in the world, it could not be sustained without the 
aid of funds supplied by the government. The extraordinary par- 
tiality for this theatre seems to have existed among the higher 
classes, without any intermission from change of fashion, occa- 
sional inferiority of the performances, or any other cause, from the 
time of Louis Quatorze to the present. That immortal monarch, 
whose whim was power, and whose word was law, granted a pa- 
tent privilege to this establishment in favour of the musical Abbe 
Perrin, but speedily revoked it, to bestow one more ample still on 
Lulli. In this latter act, it is ordained that " all gentlemen and 
ladies may sing in such pieces and representations of our said 
Royal Academy, without being held on that account to have dero- 
gated from their title of nobility or their privileges." 

This was a droll device to exalt this pet plaything of the fashion- 
able world above all others. Voltaire fell into the mode like the 
rest of the fine folks, and thus expressed his sensibility to its at- 
tractions : — 

" II faut se rendre b, ce palais magique, 
Oa les beaux vers, la danse, la musique, 
L'art de charmer les yeux par les couleurs, 
L'art plus heureux de seduire les coeurs, 
De cent plaisirs font un plaisir unique." 

But the most incomprehensible part of the business is, that with 
all this enthusiasm, which certainly rather goes on increasing than 
diminishing, every one declares that he is ennuyi d la mart at le 
grand opSra. 



1>ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 287 

I do not mean that their being ennuyes is incomprehensible — 
Heaven knows that I understand that perfectly : but why, when 
ihis is avowed, they should continue to persecute themselves by 
going there two or three times in every week, I cannot comprehend. 

If attendance at the opera were here, as it is with us, a sort of 
criterion of the love of music and other fine arts, it would be much 
less difficult to understand : but this is far from being the case, as 
both the Itahan and the comic operas have more perfect orches- 
tras. The style and manner of singing, too, are what no genuine 
lover of music could ever be brought to tolerate. When the re- 
membrance of a German or Italian opera comes across one while 
listening to the dry, heavy recitative of the Academy, it produces 
a feeling of impatience difficult to conceive by those who have 
never experienced it. 

If, however, instead of being taken in by the name of opera, and 
expecting the musical treat which that name seems to promise, 
we go to this magnificent theatre for ihe purpose of seeing the 
most superb and the best-fancied decorations in the world, we shall 
at least not be disappointed, though before the end of the enter- 
tainment we may probably become heartily weary of gazing at and 
admiring the dazzling pageant. I told you just now what Voltaire 
said of the opera, either when he was particularly enchanted by 
some reigning star — the adorable Sophie Arnould perhaps — or 
else when he chose to be particularly a-la-mode ; but he seems 
more soberly in earnest, I think, when he says afterward, " The 
opera is nothing more than a public rendezvous, where people 
meet on certain days without exactly knowing why ; it is a house 
to which everybody goes, although nobody likes the master, and 
all think him very tiresome." 

That little phrase, " ou tout le monde va," contains, I suspect, 
after all, the only true solution of the mystery, " Man is a gre- 
garious animal," say the philosophers ; and it is therefore only in 
conformity to this well-known law of his nature that hes and shes 
flock by thousands to be pent up together, in defiance of most 
triste musique and a stifling atmosphere, within the walls of this 
beautiful puppet-show. 

That it is beautiful, I am at this moment particularly willing to 
avouch, as we have just been regaling ourselves, or rather our 
eyes, with as gorgeous a spectacle there as it ever entered into 
the heart of a carpenter to etaler on the stage of a theatre. This 
splendid show is known by the name of " La Juive ;" but it 
should rather have been called " Le Cardinal," for a personage 
of no less dignity is decidedly its hero. M. Halevy is the com- 
poser, and M. Scribe the author of the " paroles." 

M. Scribe stands so high as a dramatic composer, that I sup- 
pose he may sport a little with his fame without running much 



288 I'ARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

risk of doing it an injury : but as the Academie Roy ale has the 
right of drawing upon the Treasury for its necessities, it is to be 
hoped that the author of " Bertrand et Raton" is well paid for 
lending his name to the pegs on which ermine and velvet, feathers 
and flowers, cardinals' hats and emperors' mantles, are hung up to 
view for the amusement of all who may be curious in such mat- 
ters. I suspect, however, that the composition of this piece did not 
cost the poet many sleepless nights : perhaps he remembered that 
excellent axiom of the Barbier de Seville, — " That which is not 
worth saying, they sing ;" and under this sentence I think such 
verses as the following, which strongly remind one of the famous 
Lilliputian ode in the Bath Guide, may fairly enough be condemned 
to music. 

" Fille chere, 
Pres d'un phre 

Viens mourir ; ■ 
Ec pardonne 
Quand il donne 
La couronne 

Du martyr ' 
Plus de plainte — 
Vaine crainte 
Est etehite 

En mon cceur ; 
Saint delire ! 
Dieu m'inspire 
Et j 'expire 

Vainqueur." 

Unhappily, however, the music is at least as worthless as the 
rhymes. There is one passage, nevertheless, that is singularly 
impressive and beautiful. This is the chorus at the opening of 
the second act, where a party of Jews, assembled to eat the pass- 
over, chant a grace in these words : — 

" Oh ! Dieu de nos pferes ! 
Toi qui nous eclaires, 
Parmi nous descends !" 
&c. &c. &c. 

This is very fine, but perhaps it approaches rather too closely to 
the " Dieu d'Israel" in Mehul's opera of " Joseph" to be greatly 
vaunted on the score of originality. 

Yet, with all these " points of 'vantage" at which it may be 
hostilely attacked, " La Juive" draws thousands to gaze at its 
splendour every time it is performed. Twice we attempted to 
get in without having secured places, and were told on both oc- 
casions that there was not even standing-room for gentlemen. 

Among its attractions are two which are alike new to me as be- 
longing to an opera ; one is the performance of the " Te Deum 
laudamus," and the other the entrance of Franconi's troop of horse. 

But, after all, it was clear enough that, whatever may have been 
the original object of this institution, with its nursery academies 



fARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 289 

of music and dancing, its royal patronage and legalized extrava- 
gance, its present glory rests almost wholly on the talents of the 
Taglioni family, and with the sundry MM. Decorateurs who have 
imagined and arranged the getting up this extraordinary specimen 
of scenic magnificence, as well as the many others of the same 
kind which have preceded it. 

I have seen many very fine shows of the kind in London, but 
certainly never any thing that could at all be compared with this. 
Individual scenes — as, for instance, that of the masked ball in 
" Gustavus" — may equal, by the effect of the first coup-d'oeil, any 
scene in " La Juive ;" but it is the extraordinary propriety and 
perfection of all the accessaries which make this part of the per- 
formance worthy of a critical study from the beginning to the end 
of it. I remember reading, in some history of Paris, that it was 
the fashion to be so precieuse as to the correctness of the cos- 
tumes of the French opera, that the manager could not venture to 
bring out " Les Trois Sultanes" without sending to Constanti- 
nople to obtain the dresses. A very considerable portion of the 
same spirit has evidently been at work to render the appearance 
of a large detachment of the court of Rome and the whole court 
of the Emperor Sigismund comme ilfaut upon the scene. ! 

But, with all a woman's weakness at my heart in favour of vel- 
vet, satin, gold tissue, and ermine, I cannot but confess that these 
things, important as they are, appear but secondary aids in the 
magical scenic effects of " La Juive." The arrangement and 
management of the scenery were to me perfectly new. The 
coulisses have vanished, side scenes are no more, — and, what is 
more important still, these admirable mechanists have found the 
way of throwing across the stage those accidental masses of 
shadow, by aid of which Nature produces her most brilliant effects ; 
so that, instead of the aching eyes having to gaze upon a blaze 
of reflected light, relieved only by an occasional dip of the foot- 
lights and a sudden paling of gas in order to enact night, they are 
now enchanted and beguiled by exactly such a mixture of light 
and shade as an able painter would give to a picture. 

How this is effected. Heaven knows ! There are, I am very 
sure, more things at present above, about, and underneath the 
opera stage, than are dreamed of in any philosophy, excepting 
that of a Parisian carpenter. In the first scene of the " Juive," a 
very noble-looking church rears its sombre front exactly in the 
centre of the stage, throwing as fine, rich, deep a shadow on one 
side of it as Notre Dame herself could do. In another scene, 
half the stage appears to be sunk below the level of the eye, and 
is totally lost sight of, a low parapet wall marking the boundary 
of the seeming river. 

Our box was excellently situated, and by no means distant 

T 



^90 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

from the stage ; yet we often found it impossible to determine at 
what point, in different directions, the boards ended and the 
scenery began. The arrangement of the groups, too, not merely 
in combinations of grace and beauty, but in such bold, easy, and 
picturesque variety, that one might fancy Murillo had made the 
sketches for them, was another source of wonder and admiration ; 
and had all these pretty sights been shown us in the course of 
two acts instead of five, I am sure we should have gone home 
quite delighted and in the highest possible good-humour. But 
five acts of raree-show is too much ; and accordingly we yawned, 
and talked of Gretry, Mehul, Nicolo, and I know not whom be- 
sides ; — in short, became as splenetic and pedantic as possible. 

We indulged ourselves occasionally in this unamiable mood by 
communicating our feelings to each other, in a whisper, however, 
which could not go beyond our own box, and with the less re- 
straint, because we felt sure that the one stranger gentleman who 
shared it with us could not understand our language. But herein 
we egregiously deceived ourselves : though in appearance he was 
Frangais jusqu'aux ongles, we soon found out that he could 
speak English as well as any of us ; and, with much real polite- 
ness, he had the good-nature to let us know this before we had 
uttered any thing too profoundly John Bullish to be forgiven. 

Fortunately, too, it appeared that our judgments accorded as 
well as if we had all been born in the same parish. He lamented 
the decadence of music in this, which ought to be its especial 
theatre ; but spoke with enthusiasm of the Theatre Italien, and 
its great superiority in science over every other in Paris. This 
theatre, to my great vexation, is now closed ; but I well remem- 
ber that such too was my judgment of it some seven years ago. 

The English and the French are generally classed together as 
having neither one nor the other any really national music of 
their own. We have both of us, however, some sweet and per- 
fectly original airs, which will endure as long as the modulations 
of sound are permitted to enchant our mortal ears. Nevertheless, 
1 am not going to appeal against a sentence too often repeated 
not to be universally received as truth. But, notwithstanding 
this absence of any distinct school of national music, it is impos- 
sible to doubt that the people of both countries are fondly attach- 
ed to the science. More sacrifices are made by both to obtain 
good music than the happy German and Italian people would 
ever dream of making. Nor would it, I think, be fair to argue, 
from the present style of the performances at the Academic, that 
the love of music is on the decline here. The unbounded expense 
bestowed upon decorations, and the pomp and splendour of effect 
which results from it, are quite enough to attract and dazzle the 
eyes of a more " thinking people" than the Parisians ; and the un- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 291 

precedented perfection to which the mechanists have brought the 
delusion of still-life seems to permit a relaxation in the efforts of 
the manager to obtain attraction from other sources. 

But this will not last. The French people really love music, 
and will have it. It is more than probable that the musical branch 
of this academic establishment will soon revive ; and if in doing 
so it -preserve its present superiority of decoration, it will again 
become an amusement of unrivalled attraction; 

I believe the French themselves generally consider us as hav- 
mg less claim to the reputation of musical amateurship than them- 
selves ; but, with much respect for their judgment on such sub- 
jects, I differ from them wholly in this. When has France ever 
shown, either in her capital or out of it, such a glorious burst of 
musical enthusiasm as produced the festivals of Westminster Ab- 
bey and of York ? 

It was not for the sake of encouraging an English school of 
music, certainly, that these extraordinary efforts were made. They 
were not native strains which rang along the vaulted roofs ; but it 
was English taste, and English feeling, which recently, as well 
as in days of yore, conceived and executed a scheme of harmony 
more perfect and sublime than I can remember to have heard of 
elsewhere, 

I doubt, too, if in any country a musical institution can be pointed 
out in purer taste than that of our ancient music concert. The 
style and manner of this are wholly national, though the composi- 
tions performed. there are but partially so ; and I think no one who 
truly and deeply loves the science but must feel that there is a 
character in it which, considering the estimation in which it has 
for so many years been held, may fairly redeem the whole nation 
from any deficiency in musical taste. 

There is one branch of the " gay science," if I may so call it, 
which I always expect to find in France, but respecting which I 
have hitherto been always disappointed : this is in the humble 
class of itinerant musicians. In Germany they abound ; and it 
not seldom happens that their strains arrest the feet and enchant 
the ear of the most fastidious. But whenever, in France, I have 
encountered an ambulant troubadour, I confess I have felt no in- 
clination to linger on my way to listen to him. I do not, however, 
mean to claim much honour for ourselves on the score of our 
travelling minstrels. If we fail to pause in listening to those of 
France, we seldom fail to run whenever our ears are overtaken by 
our own. Yet still we give strong proof of our love of music, in 
the more than ordinary strains which may be occasionally heard 
before every coffee-house in London, when the noise and racket 
of the morning have given place to the hours of enjoyment. I 
have heard that the bands of wind instruments which nightly pa- 

T2 



292 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

rade through the streets of London receive donations which, taken 
on an average throughout the year, would be sufficient to support 
a theatre. This can only proceed from a genuine propensity to 
being " moved by concord of sweet sounds ;" for no fashion, as is 
the case at our costly operas, leads to it. On the contrary, it is 
most decidedly mauvais ton to be caught listening to this unex- 
clusive harmony ; yet it is encouraged in a degree that clearly 
indicates the popular feeling. 

Have I then proved to your satisfaction, as completely as I un- 
doubtedly have to my own, that, if without a national music, at 
least we are not without a national taste for it ? 



LETTER LVL 

The Abb6 Deguerry— His eloquence— Excursion across the water— Library of Saintc 
Genevieve- Copy-book of the Dauphin— St. Etienne du Mont— Pantheon. 

The finest sermon I have heard since I have been in Paris — 
and, I am almost inclined to think, the finest I ever heard any- 
where — was preached yesterday by the Abbe Deguerry at St. 
Roch. It was a discourse calculated to benefit all Christian souls 
of every sect and denomination whatever — had no shade of doc- 
trinal allusion in it of any kind, and was just such a sermon as 
one could wish every soi-disant infidel might be forced to listen to 
while the eyes of a Christian congregation were fixed upon him. 
It would do one good to see such a being cower and shrink, in the 
midst of his impotent and petulant arrogance, to feel how a " plain 
word could put him down." 

The Abbe Deguerry is a young man, apparently under thirty ; 
but nature seems to have put him at once in possession of a talent 
which generally requires long years to bring to perfection. He is 
eloquent in the very best manner ; for it is an eloquence intended 
rather to benefit the hearer than to do honour to the mere human 
talent of the orator. Beautifully as his periods flowed, I felt cer- 
tain, as I listened to him, that their harmonious rhythm was the 
result of no study, but purely the effect, unconsciously displayed, 
of a fine ear and an almost unbounded command of language. He 
had studied his matter, — he had studied and deeply weighed his 
arguments ; but, for his style, it was the free gift of Heaven. 

Extempore preaching has always appeared to me to be a fear- 
fully presumptuous exercise. Thoughts well digested, expres- 
sions carefully chosen, and arguments conscientiously examined, 
are no more than every congregation has. a right to expect from 







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Jarpa- i BroAerE 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 293 

one who addresses them with all the authority of place on subjects 
of most high importance ; and rare indeed is the talent which can 
produce this without cautious and deliberate study. But in 
listening to the Abbe Deguerry, I perceived it was possible that a 
great and peculiar talent, joined to early and constant practice, 
might enable a man to address his fellow-creatures without pre- 
sumption, even though he had not written his sermon ; — yet it is 
probable that I should be more correct were I to say, without 
reading it to his congregation, for it is hardly possible to believe 
that such a composition was actually and altogether extempore. 

His argument, which was to show the helpless insufficiency of 
man without the assistance of revelation and rehgious faith, was 
never lost sight of for an instant. There was no weak wordiness, 
no repetition, no hackneyed ornaments of rhetoric ; but it was the 
voice of truth, speaking in that language of universal eloquence 
which all nations and all creeds must feel ; and it flowed on with 
unbroken clearness, beauty, and power, to the end. 

Having recently quitted Flanders, where every thing connected 
with the Roman Catholic worship is sustained in a style of stately 
magnificence which plainly speaks its Spanish origin, I am con- 
tinually surprised by the comparatively simple vestments and 
absence of ostentatious display in the churches of Paris. At the 
metropolitan church of Notre Dame, indeed, nothing was wanting 
to render its archiepiscopal dignity conspicuous ; but everywhere 
else, there was a great deal less of pomp and circumstance than I 
expected. But nowhere is the relaxation of clerical dignity in the 
clergy of Paris so remarkable as in the appearance of the young 
priests whom we occasionally meet in the streets. The flowing 
curls, the simple round hat, the pantaloons, and in some cases the 
boots also, give them the appearance of a race of men as unlike 
as possible to their stifl" and primitive predecessors. Yet they 
all look flourishing, and well pleased with themselves and the 
world about them : but little of mortification or abstinence can be 
traced on their countenances ; and if they do fast for some portion 
of every week, they may certainly say with Father Philip, that 
" what they take prospers with them marvellously." 

We have this morning made an excursion to the other side of 
the water, which always seems like setting out upon a journey ; 
and yet I know not why it should be so, for as the river is not 
very wide, the bridges are not very long ; but so it is, that for 
some reason or other, if it were not for the magnetic Abbaye-aux- 
Bois, we should very rarely find ourselves on the left bank of the 
Seine. 

On this occasion, our object was to visit the famous old library 
of Ste. Genevieve, on the invitation of a gentleman who is one 
of the librarians. Nothing can be more interesting than an expe- 



294 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

dition of this sort, with an inteUigent and obliging cicisbeo, who 
knows every thing concerning the objects displayed before you, 
and is kindly willing to communicate as much of his savoir as the 
time may allow, or as may be necessary to make the different 
objects examined come forth from that venerable but incompre- 
hensible accumulation of treasures, which form the mass of all 
the libraries and museums in the world, and which, be he as inno- 
cent of curiosity as an angel, every stranger is bound over to visit 
under penalty, when honestly reciting his adventures, of hearing 
exclamations from all the friends he left at home, of — " What ! . . . 
did you not see that ? . , . Then you have seen nothing !" 

I would certainly never expose myself to this cutting reproach, 
could I always secure as agreeable a companion as the one who 
tempted us to mount to the elevated repository which contains the 
hundred thousand volumes of the royal library of Ste. Genevieve. 
Were I a student there, I should grumble prodigiously at the long 
and steep ascent to this temple of all sorts of learning : but, once 
reached, the tranquil stillness, and the perfect seclusion from the 
eternal hum of the great city that surrounds it, are very delightful, 
and might, I think, act as a sedative upon the most restiflf and 
truant imagination that ever beset a student. 

I was sorry to hear that symptoms of decay in the timbers of 
the venerable roof make it probable that this fine old room must 
be given up, and the large collection it has so long sheltered be 
conveyed elsewhere. The apartment is in the form of a cross, 
■with a dome at the point of intersection, painted by the elder 
Restout. Though low, and in fact occupying only the roof of the 
college, formerly the Abbaye of Sainte Genevieve, there is sorne- 
thing singularly graceful and pleasing to the eye in this extensive 
chamber, its ornaments and general arrangement ;— something 
monastic, yet not gloomy ; with an air of learned ease, and com- 
fortable exclusion of all annoyance, that is very enviable. 

The library appears to be kept up in excellent style, and in 
a manner to give full effect to its liberal regulations, which permit 
the use of every volume in the collection to all the earth. The 
wandering scholar at distance from his own learned cell, and the 
idle reader for mere amusement, may alike indulge their bookish 
propensities here, with exactly the same facilities that are accorded 
to the students of the college. The librarians or their deputies 
are ready to deliver to them any work they ask for, with the light 
and reasonable condition annexed that the reader shall accompany 
the person who is to find the volume or volumes required, and 
assist in conveying them to the spot which he has selected for his 
place of study. 

The long table which stretches from the centre under the dome, 
across the transepts of the cross, was crowded with young men 



PARIS AND THK PARISIANS.. 295 

when we were there, who really seemed most perfectly in earnest 
in their occupation — gazing on the volumes before them " with 
earnest looks intent," even while a large party swept past them 
to examine a curious model of Rome placed at the extremity of 
one of the transepts, A rigorous silence, however, is enjoined 
in this portion of the apartments ; so that even the ladies were 
obliged to postpone their questions and remarks till they had 
passed out of it. 

After looking at splendid editions, rare copies, and so forth, our 
friend led us to some small rooms, fitted up with cases for the 
especial protection, under lock and key, of the manuscripts of the 
collection. Having admired the spotless vellum of some, and the 
fair penmanship of others, a thin morocco-bound volume was put 
into my hands, which looked like a young lady's collection of 
manuscript waltzes. This was the copy-book of the Dauphin, 
father of the much-regretted Duke de Bourgogne, and grandfather 
of Louis Quinze. 

The characters were evidently written with great care. Each 
page contained a moral axiom, and all of them more or less 
especially applicable to a royal pupil. There was one of these 
which I thought might be particularly useful to all such at the 
present day : it was entitled, in large letters-^- / 

" SE MOQTJEUR DE LIBELLEs" 

— the superfluous u being erased by a dash of the master's pen. 
Then followed, in extremely clear and firm characters, these lines : 

" Si de vos actions la satyre rejoue, 
Feignez adroitement de ne la pas ouir : 
Qui relive une injure, il semble qu'il I'avoue ; 
Qui la scait mepnser, la fait evanouir." 



In one of these smaller rooms hangs the portrait of a negress in 
the dress of a nun. It has every appearance of being a very old 
painting, and our friend M, C * * * * told us that a legend had 
been ever attached to it, importing that it was the portrait of a 
daughter of Mary Queen of Scots, born before she left France for 
Scotland. What could have originated such a very disagreeable 
piece of scandal, it is difficult to imagine ; but I can testify that 
all the internal evidence connected with it is strong against its 
truth, for no human countenance can well be conceived which 
would show less family likeness to our lovely and unfortunate 
northern queen than does that of this grim sister. 

From the library of Ste. Genevieve, we went under the same 
kind escort to look at the barbaric but graceful vagaries of St. 
Etienne du Mont, The galleries suspended as if by magic be- 
tween the pillars of the choir, and the spiral staircases leading to 



296 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

them, out of all order as they are, must nevertheless be acknowl- 
edged as among the lightest and most fairy-like constructions in 
the world. This singular church, capricious in its architecture 
both within and without, is in some parts of great antiquity, and 
was originally built as a chapel of ease to the old church of Ste. 
Genevieve, which stood close beside it, and of which the lofty 
old tower still remains, making part of the college buildings. As 
a proof of the entire dependance of this pretty little church upon 
its mother edifice, it was not permitted to have any separate door 
of its own, the only access to it being through the great church. 
This subsidiary chapel, now dignified into a parish church, has at 
different periods been enlarged and beautified, and has again and 
again petitioned for leave from its superior to have a door of its 
own ; but again and again it was refused, and it was not till the 
beginning of the sixteenth century that this modest request was 
at length granted. The great Pascal lies buried in this church. 

I was very anxious to give my children a sight of the interior 
of that beautiful but versatile building called, when I first saw it, 
the Pantheon — when I last saw it, Ste. Genevieve, and which is 
now again known to all the world, or at least to that part of it 
which has been fortunate enough to visit Paris since the immortal 
days, as the Pantheon. 

We could not, however, obtain an entrance to it ; and it is very 
likely that before we shall again find ourselves on its simple and 
severe, but very graceful threshold, it will have again changed its 
vocation, and be restored to the use of the Christian church,— > 
Ainsi soit-il ! 



LETTER LVII. 

Little Suppers— Great Dinners— Affectation of Gourmandise— Evil effects of " dining 
out" — Evening Parties — Dinners in private under the name of Luncheons — Late 
Hours. 

How I mourn for the departed petits soupers of Paris ! . . . . 
and how far are her pompous dinners from being able to atone for 
their loss ! For those people, and I am afraid there are many of 
them, who really and literally live to eat, I know that the word 
*' dinner" is the signal and symbol of earth's best, and, perhaps, 
only bliss. For them the steaming vapour, the tedious long array, 
the slow and solemn progress of a diner de quatre services, offers 
nothing but joy and gladness ; but what is it to those who only 
eat to live ? 



PARIS ANB THE PARISIANS. 297 

I know no case in which injustice and tyranny are so often 
practised as at the dinner-table. Perhaps twenty people sit down 
to dinner, of whom sixteen would give the world to eat just no 
more than they like and have done with it : but it is known to the 
Amphitryon that there are four heavy persons present whose souls 
hover over his ragouts like harpies over the feast of Phinseus, and 
they must not be disturbed, or revilings instead of admiration will 
repay the outlay and the turmoil of the banquet. 

A tedious, dull play, followed by a long, noisy, and gunpowder- 
scented pantomime, upon the last scene of which your party is 
determined to see the curtain fall ; a heavy sermon of an hour 
long, your pew being exactly in front of the preacher ; a morning 
visit from a lady who sends her carriage to fetch her boys from 
school at Wimble ton, and comes to entertain you with friendly 
talk about her servants till it comes back ; — each of these is hard 
to bear and difficult to escape ; but which of them can compare in 
suffering to a full-blown, stiff, stately dinner of three hours long, 
where the talk is of food, and the only relief from this talk is to 
eat it ? . , . . How can you get away ? How is it possible to find 
or invent any device that can save you from enduring to the end ? 
With cheeks burning from steam and vexation, can you plead a 
sudden faintness ? Still less can you dare to tell the real truth, 
and confess that you are dying of disgust and ennui. The match 
is so unfair between the different parties at such a meeting as 
this — the victims so utterly helpless ! . . . . And, after all, there is 
no occasion for it. In London there are the clubs and the Cla- 
rendon ; in Paris are Perigord's and Very's, and a score besides, 
any one of which could furnish a more perfect dinner than can be 
found at any private mansion whatever, where sufferings are often 
inflicted on the wretched lookers-on very nearly approaching to 
those necessary for the production of the foie gras. 

Think not, however, that I am inclined in the least degree to 
affect indifference or dislike to an elegant, well-spread table : on 
the contrary, I am disposed to believe that the hours when mor- 
tals meet together, all equally disposed to enjoy themselves by 
refreshing the spirits, recruiting the strength, and inspiring the 
wit, with the cates and the cups most pleasing to the palate of 
each, may be reckoned, without any degradation to human pride, 
among the happiest hours of life. But this no more resembles 
the endless crammings of a repas de quatre services, than a work 
in four volumes on political economy to an epigram in four lines 
upon the author of it. 

In fact, to give you a valuable hint upon the subject, I am per- 
suaded that some of the most distinguished gourmets of the age 
have plunged themselves and their disciples into a most lament- 
able error in this matter. They have overdone the thing alto- 



298 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

gether. Their object is to excite the appetite as much as possible, 
in order to satisfy it as largely as possible ; and this end is utterly 
defeated by the means used. But I will not dwell on this ; neither 
you nor I are very particularly interested in the success either of 
the French or English eaters by profession ; we will leave them 
to study their own business, and manage it as well as they can. 

For the more philosophical enjoyers of the goods the gods pro- 
vide I feel more interest, and I really lament the weakness which 
leads so many of them to follow a fashion which must be so con- 1 
trary to all their ideas of real enjoyment; but, unhappily, it is 
daily becoming more necessary for every man who sits down at a 
fashionable table to begin talking like a cook. They surely mis- 
take the thing altogether. This is not the most effectual way of 
proving the keenness of their gourmandise. 

In nine cases out of ten, I believe this inordinate passion for 
good eating is pure affectation ; and I suspect that many a man, 
especially many a young man, both in Paris and London, would 
often be glad to eat a reasonably good dinner, and then change the 
air, instead of sitting hour after hour, while dishes are brought to 
his elbow till his head aches in shaking it as a negative to the offer 
of them, were it not that it would be so dreadfully bourgeois to 
confess it. 

If, however, on the other hand, an incessant and pertinacious 
" diner-out" should take up the business in good earnest, and con- 
sole himself for the long sessions he endures by really eating on 
from soup to ice, what a heavy penalty does he speedily pay for 
it ! I have lived long enough to watch more than one svelte, grace- 
ful, elegant young man, the glory of the drawing-room, the pride 
of the Park, the hero of Almack's, growing every year rounder and 
redder ; the clear, well-opened eye becoming dull and leaden — the 
brilliant white teeth looking " not what they were, but quite the 
reverse," till the noble-looking, animated being, that one half the 
world was ready to love, and the other to envy, sank down into a 
heavy, clumsy, middle-aged gentleman before half his youth was 
fairly past ; and this solely for the satisfaction of continuing to eat 
every day for some hours after he had ceased to be hungry. 

It is really a pity that every one beginning this career does not 
set the balance of what he will gain and what he will lose by it 
fairly before him. If this were done, we should probably have 
much fewer theoretical cooks and practical crammers, but many 
more lively, animated table-companions, who might oftener be 
witty themselves, and less often the cause of wit in others. 

The fashion for assembling large parties, instead of selecting 
small ones, is on all occasions a grievous injury to social enjoy- 
ment. It began perhaps in vanity : fine ladies wished to show the 
•world that they had " a dear five hundred friends" ready to come 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 299 

ai their call. But as everybody complains of it as a bore, from 
Whitechapel to Belgrave Square, and from the Faubourg St. An- 
toine to the Faubourg du Roule, vanity would now be likely enough 
to put a general stop to it, were it not that a most disagreeable 
species of economy prevents it. " A large party kills such a pro- 
digious number of birds," as I once heard a friend of mine say, 
when pleading to her husband for permission to overflow her din- 
ner-table first, and then her drawing-rooms, " that it is the most 
extravagant thing in the world to have a small one." Now this is 
terrible, because it is true : but, at least, those blessed with wealth 
might enjoy the extreme luxury of having just as many people 
about them as they liked, and no more ; and if they would but be 
so very obliging as to set the fashion, we all know that it would 
speedily be followed in some mode or other by all ranks, till it 
would be considered as positively mauvais ton to have twice as 
many people in your house as you have chairs for them to sit on. 

The pleasantest evening parties remaining in Paris, now that 
such delightful little committees as Moliere brings together after 
the performance of " L'Ecole des Femmes" can meet no more, are 
those assembled by an announcement made by Madame Such-a- 
one to a somewhat select circle, that she shall be at home on a 
certain evening in every week, fortnight, or month, throughout the 
season. This done, nothing farther is necessary ; and on these 
evenings a party moderately large drop in without ceremony, and 
depart without restraint. No preparation is made beyond a few 
additional lights ; and the albums and port-folios in one room, with 
perhaps a harp or piano-forte in another, give aid, if aid be wanted, 
to the conversation going on in both. Ices, eau sucree, sirup of 
fruits, and gaufres are brought round, and the party rarely remain 
together after midnight. 

This is very easy and agreeable — incomparably better, no doubt, 
than more crowded and more formal assemblees. Nevertheless, 
I am so profoundly rococo as to regret heartily the passing away 
of the petits soupers, which used to be the favourite scene of en- 
joyment, and the chosen arena for the exhibition of wit, for all the 
beaux esprits, male and female, of Paris. 

I was told last spring, in London, that at present it was the par- 
venus only who had-incomes unscathed by the stormy times ; and 
that, consequently, it was rather elegant than otherwise to chanter 
misire upon all occasions. I moreover heard a distinguished con- 
fectioner, when in conversation with a lady on the subject of a 
ball-supper, declare that " orders were so slack, that he had coun- 
termanded a set of new ornaments which he had bespoken from 
Paris." 

Such being the case, what an excellent opportunity is the pres- 
ent for a little remueraent in the style of giving entertainments ! 



300 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Poverty and the clubs render fine dinners at once dangerous, dif- 
ficult, and unnecessary ; but does it follow that men and wonoen 
are no more to meet round a banqueting-table ? *' Because we are 
virtuous, shall there be no more cakes and ale ?" 

I have often dreamed, that were I a great lady, with houses and 
lands, and money at will, I would see if I could not break through 
the tyrannous yoke of fashion, often so confessedly galling to the 
patient wearers of it, and, in the place of heavy, endless dinners, 
which often make bankrupt the spirit and the purse, endeavour to , 
bring into vogue that prettiest of all inventions for social enjoy- 
ment — a real supper-table : not a long board, whereat aching 
limbs and languid eyes may yawningly wait to receive from the 
hand of Mr. Gunter what must cost the giver more, and profit the 
receiver less, than any imaginable entertainment of the kind I 
propose, and which might be spread by an establishment as simply 
monte as that of any gentleman in London. 

Then think of the luxury of sitting down at a table neither 
steaming with ragouts, nor having dyspepsy hid under every 
cover; where neither malignant gout stands by, nor servants 
swarm and listen to every idle word ; where you may renew the 
memory of the sweet strains you have just listened to at the opera, 
instead of sitting upon thorns while you know that your favourite 
overture is in the very act of being played ! All should be cool 
and refreshing, nectarine and ambrosial, — uncrowded, easy, inti- 
mate, and as witty as Englishmen and Englishwomen could con- 
trive to make it ! 

Till this experiment has been fairly made and declared to fail, 
I will never allow that the conversational powers of the women of 
England have been fully proved and found wanting. The wit of 
Mercury might be weighed to earth by the endurance of three 
long, pompous courses ; and would it not require spirits lighter 
and brighter than those of a Peri to sustain a woman gayly through 
the solemn ceremonies of a fine dinner ? 

In truth, the whole arrangement appears to me strangely defect- 
ive and ill-contrived. Let English ladies be sworn to obey the 
laws of fashion as faithfully as they will, they cannot live till eight 
o'clock in the evening without some refreshment more substantial 
than the first morning meal. In honest truth and plain EngHsh, 
they all dine in the most unequivocal manner at two or three 
o'clock ; nay, many of those who meet their hungry brethren at 
dinner-parties, have taken coffee or tea before they arrive there. 
Then what a distasteful, tedious farce does the fine dinner be- 
come ! 

Now just utter a *' Passe ! passe !" and, by a little imaginative 
legerdemain, turn from this needless dinner to such a petit souper 
as Madame de Maintenon gave of yore. Let Fancy paint the 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 301 

contrast ; and let her take the gayest colours she can find, she 
cannot make it too striking. You must, however, rouse your 
courage, and strengthen your nerves, that they may not quail be- 
fore this fearful word — supper. In truth, the sort of shudder I 
have seen pass over the countenances of some fashionable men 
when it is pronounced, may have been natural and unaffected 
enough ; for who that has been eating in despite of nature from 
eight to eleven, can find any thing appetissant in this word " sup- 
per" uttered at twelve. 

But if we could persuade Messieurs nos Maitres, instead of in- 
juring their health by the long fast which now precedes their din- 
ner, during which they walk, talk, ride, drive, read, play billiards, 
yawn — nay, even sleep, to while away the time, and to accumu- 
late, as it were, an appetite of inordinate dimensions ; — if, instead 
of this, they would for one season try the experiment of dining at 
five o'clock, and condescend afterward to permit themselves to 
be agreeable in the drawing-room, they would find their wit spar- 
kle brighter than the champaign at their supper-tables, and more- 
over their mirrors would pay them the prettiest compliments in 
the world before they had tried the change for a fortnight. 

But, alas ! all this is very idle speculation ; for I am not a great 
lady, and have no power whatever to turn dull dinners into gay 
suppers, let me wish it as much as I may. 



LETTER LVIII. 

Hopital des Enfans Trouvfe — Its doubtful advantages — Story of a Child left there'. 

Like diligent sight-seers, as we are, we have been to visit the 
hospital for les Enfans Trouves. I had myself gone over every 
part of the establishment several years before, but to the rest of 
my party it was new — and certainly there is enough of strange- 
ness in the spectacle to repay a drive to the Rue d'Enfer. Our 
kind friend and physician. Dr. Mojon, who, by-the-way, is one of 
the most amiable men and most skilful physicians in Paris, was 
the person who introduced us ; and his acquaintance with the 
visiting physician, who attended us round the rooms, enabled us 
to obtain much interesting information. But, alas ! it seems as 
if every question asked on this subject could only elicit a painful 
answer. The charity itself, noble as it is in extent, and admira- 
ble for the excellent order which reigns throughout every depart- 
ment of it, is, I fear, but a very doubtful good. If it tend, as it 



302 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

doubtless must do, to prevent the unnatural crime of infanticide, 
it leads directly to one hardly less hateful in the perpetration, and 
perhaps more cruel in its result, — namely, that of abandoning the 
creature whom nature, unless very fearfully distorted, renders 
dearer than life. Nor is it the least melancholy part of the 
speculation to know that one fourth of the innocent creatures, 
who are deposited at the average rate of above twenty each day, 
die within the first year of their lives. But this, after all, perhaps, 
is no very just cause of lamentation : one of the sisters of charity 
who attend at the hospital told me, in reply to an inquiry respect- 
ing the education of these immortal but unvalued beings, that 
the charity Extended not its cares beyond preserving their animal 
life and health — that no education whatever was provided for 
them, and that, unless some lucky and most rare accident occur- 
red to change their destiny, they generally grew up in very nearly 
the same state as the animals bred upon the farms which received 
them. 

Peasants come on fixed days — two or three times a week, I 
believe — to receive the children who appear likely to live, as 
nurslings ; and they convey them into the country, sometimes to 
a great distance from Paris, partly for the sake of a consideration 
in money which they receive, but chiefly for the value of their 
labour. 

It is a singular fact, that during the years which immediately 
followed the revolution, the number of children deposited at the 
hospital was greatly diminished ; but, among those deposited, the 
proportion of deaths was still more greatly increased. In 1797, 
for instance, 3,716 children were received, 3,108 of whom died. 

I have lately heard a story, of which a child received at this 
hospital is in some sort the heroine ; and as I thought it sufficiently 
interesting to insert in my note-book, I am tempted to transcribe 
it for you. The circumstances occurred during the period which 
immediately followed the first revolution; but the events were 
merely domestic, and took no colour from the times, 

M. le Comte de G * * * * was a nobleman of quiet and retired 
habits, whom delicate health had early induced to quit the ser- 
vice, the court, and the town. He resided wholly at a paternal 
chateau in Normandy, where his forefathers had resided before 
him too usefully and too unostentatiously to have suffered from 
the devastating effects of the revolution. The neighbours, instead 
of violating their property, had protected it ; and in the year 1799, 
when my story begins, the count, with his wife and one little 
daughter, was as quietly inhabiting the mansion his ancestors had 
inhabited before him, as if it stood on English soil. 

It happened, during that year, that the wife of a peasant on his 
estate, who had twice before made a journey to Paris to take a 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 303 

nursling from among the enfans trouves, again lost a newborn 
baby, and again determined upon supplying its place from the 
hospital. It seemed that the poor woman was either a bad nurse 
or a most unlucky one ; for not only had she lost three of her 
own, but her two foster-children also. 

Of this excursion, however, she prophesied a better result ; for 
the sister of charity, when she placed in her arms the baby now 
consigned to her care, assured her it was the loveliest and most 
promising child she had seen deposited during ten years of con- 
stant attendance among the enfans trouves. Nor were her hopes 
disappointed : the little Alexa (for such was the name pinned on 
her dress) was, at five years old, so beautiful, so attractive, so 
touching, with her large blue eyes and dark chestnut curls, that 
she was known and talked of for a league round Pont St. Jacques, 
M. and Madame de G * * * *, with their little girl, never passed 
the cottage without entering to look at and caress the lovely child. 

Isabeau de G * * * * was just three years older than the little 
foundling ; but a most close alliance subsisted between them. 
The young heiress, with all the pride of a juvenile senior, delight- 
ed in nothing so much as in extending her patronage and protec- 
tion to the pretty Alexa ; and the forsaken child gave her in return 
the prentices of her warm heart's fondness. 

No Sunday evening ever passed throughout the summer with 
out seeing all the village assembled under an enormous lime-tree, 
that grew upon a sort of platform in front of the primitive old 
mansion, with a pepper-box at each corner, dignified with the title 
of Chateau Tourelles. 

The circular bench which surrounded this giant tree afforded a 
resting-place for the old folks ; — the young ones danced on the 
green before them — and the children rolled on the grass, and made 
garlands of buttercups, and rosaries of daisies, to their hearts' 
content. On these occasions it was of custom immemorial that 
M. le Comte and Madame la Comtesse, with as many offspring as 
they were blessed withal, should walk down the straight pebbled 
walk which led from the chateau to the tree exactly as the clock 
struck four, there to remain for thirty minutes and no longer, 
smiling, nodding, and now and then gossiping a little, to all the 
poor bodies who chose to approach them. 

Of late years, Mademoiselle Isabeau had established a custom 
which shortened the time of her personal appearance before the 
eyes of her future tenants to somewhat less than one sixth of the 
allotted time ; for five minutes never elapsed after the little lady 
reached the tree before she contrived to slip her tiny hand out of 
her mother's, and pounce upon the little Alexa, who, on her side, 
had long learned to turn her beautiful eyes towards the chateau 
the moment she reached the ground, nor removed them till they 



304 tARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

found Isabeau's bright face to rest upon instead. As soon as she 
had got possession of her pet, the young lady, who had not per- 
haps altogether escaped spoiling, ran off with her, without asking 
leave of any, and enjoyed, either in the. aristocratic retirement of 
her own nursery, or her own play-room, or her own garden, the 
love, admiration, and docile obedience of her little favourite. 

But if this made a fete for Isabeau, it was something dearer 
still to Alexa. It was during these Sabbath hours that the poor 
child learned to be aware that she knew a great many more won- 
derful things than either Pere Gautier or Mere Franc^oise. She 
learned to read — she learned to speak as good French as Isabeau 
or her Parisian governess ; she learned to love nothing so well as 
the books, and the piano-forte, and the pictures, and the flowers of 
her pretty patroness ; and, unhappily, she learned also to dislike 
nothing so much as the dirty cottage and cross voice of Pere Gau- 
tier, who, to say the truth, did little else but scold the poor for-* 
saken thing through every meal of the week, and all day long on 
a Sunday. 

Things went on thus, without a shadow of turning, till Alexa 
attained her tenth, and Isabeau her thirteenth year. At this time 
the summer Sunday evenings began to be often tarnished by the 
tears of the foundling, as she opened her heart to her friend con- 
cerning the sufferings she endured at home. Pere Gautier scolded 
more than ever, and Mere Fran(joise expected her to do the work 
of a woman ; — in short, every day that passed made her more 
completely, utterly, hopelessly wretched ; and at last she threw 
her arms round the neck of Isabeau, and told her so, adding, in a 

voice choked with sobs, " that she wished that she wished 

.... she could die !" 

They were sitting together on a small couch in the young 
heiress's play-room when this passionate avowal was made. The 
ywung lady disengaged herself from the arms of the weeping child, 
and sat for a few moments in deep meditation. " Sit still in this 
place, Alexa," she said at length, " till I return to you :" and 
having thus spoken, with an air of unusual gravity she left the 
room. 

Alexa was so accustomed to show implicit obedience to what- 
ever her friend commanded, that she never thought of quitting the 
place where she was left, though she saw the sun set behind the 
hills through a window opposite to her, and then watched the 
bright horizontal beams fading into twilight, and twilight vanishing 
in darkness. It was strange, she thought, for her to be at the 
chateau at night ; but Mademoiselle Isabeau had bade her sit 
there, and it must be right. Weary with watching, however, she 
first dropped her head upon the arm of the sofa, then drew her 
little feet up to it, and at last fell fast asleep. How long she lay 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 305 

there my story does not tell ; but when she awoke, it was sud- 
denly and with a violent start, for she heard the voice of Madame 
de G * * * *, and felt the blaze of many lights upon her eyes. In 
another instant, however, they were sheltered from the painful 
light in the bosom of her friend. 

Jsabeau, her eyes sparkling with even more than their usual 
brightness, her colour raised, and out of breath with haste and 
eagerness, pressed her fondly to her heart, and covered her curls 
with kisses ; then, having recovered the power of speaking, she 
exclaimed, " Look up, my dear Alexa ! You are to be my own 
sister for evermore : papa and mamma have said it. Cross Pere 
Gautier has consented to give you up ; and Mere Francjoise is to 
have little Annette Morneau to live with her." 

How this had all been arranged it is needless to repeat, though 
the eager supplication of the daughter and the generous conces- 
sions of the parents made a very pretty scene as I heard it de- 
scribed ; but 1 must not make my story too long. To avoid this 
I will now slide over six years, and bring you to a fine morning 
in the year 1811, when Isabeau and Alexa, on returning from a 
ramble in the village, found Madame de G * * * * with an open 
letter in her hand, and an air of unusual excitement in her manner. 

" Isabeau, my dear child," she said, " your father's oldest 
friend, the Vicomte de C * * *, is returned from Spain. They 

are come to pass a month at V ; and this letter is to beg 

your father and me to bring you to them immediately, for they 
were in the house when you were born, my child, and they love 
you as if you were their own. Your father is gone to give orders 
about horses for to-morrow. Alexa dear, what will you do with- 
out us ?" 

*' Cannot Alexa go too, mamma ?" said Isabeau. 

" Not this time, my dear : they speak of having their chateau 
filled with guests." 

" Oh, dearest Isabeau ! do not stand to talk about me ; you 
know I do not love strangers : let me help you to get every thing 
ready." 

The party set off the next morning, and Alexa, for the first 
time since she became an inhabitant of Chateau Tourelles, was 
left without Isabeau, and with no other companion than their stiff 
governess ; but she rallied her courage, and awaited their return 
with all the philosophy she could muster. 

Time and the hour wear through the longest fortnight, and at 
the end of this term the trio returned again. The meeting of the 
two friends was almost rapturous : Monsieur and Madame had the 
air of being parfaitement contents, and all things seemed to go on 
as usual. Important changes, however, had been decide.d on 
during this visit. The Vicomte de C. had one son. He is the 

U . 



306 PARIS AND THE TARISIANS. 

hero of my story, so believe him at once to be a most charming 
personage in all ways — and in fact he was so. A marriage 
between him and Isabeau had been proposed by his father, and 
cordially agreed to by hers ; but it was decided between them that 
the young people should see something more of each other before 
this arrangement was announced to them, for both parents felt that 
the character of their children deserved and demanded rather 
more deference to their incHnalions than was generally thought 
necessary in family compacts of this nature. 

The fortnight had passed amid much gayety r every evening 
brought waltzing and music; Isabeau sang d ravir ; but as there 
were three married ladies at the chateau who proclaimed them- 
selves to be unwearying waltzers, young Jules, who was con- 
strained to do the honours of his father's house, had never found 
an opportunity to dance with Isabeau excepting for the last waltz 
on the last evening ; and then there never were seen two young 
people waltzing together with more awkward restraint. 

Madame de G * * * *, however, fancied that he had hstened 
to Isabeau's songs with pleasure, and moreover observed to Mon- 
sieur son mari that it was impossible he should not think her 
beautiful. 

Madame was quite right — Jules did think her daughter beauti- 
ful : he thought, too, that her voice was that of a siren, and that 
it would be easy for him to hsten to her till he forgot every thing 
else in the world. 

I would not be so abrupt had I more room ; but as it is neces- 
sary to hasten over the ground, I must tell you at once that Isabeau, 
on her side, was much in the same situation. But as a young lady 
should never give her heart anywhere till she is asked, and in 
France not before her husband has politely expressed his wish to 
be loved as he leads her to her carriage from the altar, Isabeau 
took especial good care that nobody should find out the indiscre- 
tion her feelings had committed ; and having not only a mind of 
considerable power, but also great confidence and some pride in 
her own strength, she felt little fear but that she should be able 
both to conceal and conquer a passion so every way unauthorized. 

Now it unfortunately happened that Jules de C. was, unhke 
the generality of his countrymen, extremely romantic; — but he 
had passed seven years in Spain, which may in some degree 
excuse it. His education, too, had been almost wholly domestic : 
he knew little of life except from books, and he had learned to 
dread, as the most direful misfortune that could befall him, the 
becoming enamoured of, and perhaps marrying, a woman who 
loved him not. 

Soon after the departure of Isabeau and her parents, the 
vicomte hinted to his son that he thought politeness required a 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 307 

return of the visit of the De G * * * * family ; and as both himself 
and his lady were un peu incommodes by some malady, real or 
supposititious, he conceived that it would be right that he, Jules, 
should present himself at Chateau Tourelles to make their excuses. 
The heart of Jules gave a prodigious leap ; but it was not wholly 
a sensation of pleasure : he felt afraid of Isabeau, — he was afraid 
of loving her, — he remembered the cold and calm expression of 
countenance v/ith which she received his farewell — his trembling 
farewell — at the door of the carriage. Yet still he accepted the 
commission ; and in ten days after the return of the de G * * * * 
family, Jules de C. presented himself before them. His reception 
by the comte and his lady was just what may be imagined,— all 
kindness and cordiality of welcome. That of Isabeau was con- 
strained and cold. She turned a little pale, but then she blushed 
again ; and the shy Jules saw nothing of the beauty of the blush — 
was conscious only of the ceremonious courtesy, and the cold 
"Bonjour, Monsieur Jules." As for Alexa, her only feeling was 
that of extreme surprise. How could it be that Isabeau had seen 
a person so very graceful, handsome, and elegant, and yet never 
say one word to her about him ! . . . . Isabeau must be blind, 
insensible, unfeeling, not to appreciate better such a being as that. 
Such was the effect produced by the appearance of Jules on the 
mind of Alexa, — the beautiful, the enthusiastic, the impassioned 
Alexa. From that moment a most cruel game of cross-purposes 
began to be played at Chateau Tourelles. Alexa commenced by 
reproaching Isabeau for her coldness, and ended by confessing that 
she heartily wished herself as cold. Jules ceased not to adore 
Isabeau, but every day strengthened his conviction that she could 
never love him ; and Isabeau, while every passing hour showed 
more to love in Jules, only drew from thence more reasons for 
combating and conquering the flame that inwardly consumed her. 

There could not be a greater contrast between two girls, both 
good, than there was both in person and mind between these two 
young friends. Isabeau was the prettiest little brunette in France 
— et c'est beaucoup dire : Alexa was, perhaps, the loveliest blonde 
in the world. Isabeau, with strong feelings, had a command over 
herself that never failed : in a good cause, she could have perished 
at the stake without a groan. Alexa could feel, perhaps, almost 
as strongly as her friend ; but to combat those feelings was be- 
yond her power : she might have died to show her love, but not 
to conceal it ; and had some fearful doom awaited her, she would 
not have lived to endure it. 

Such being the character and position of the parties, you will 
easily perceive the result. Jules soon perceived the passion with 
which he had inspired the young and beautiful Alexa, and his 
heart, wounded by the uniform reserve of Isabeau, repaid her with 

U2 



308 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

a warmth of gratitude, which, though not love, was easily mistaken 
for it by both the innocent rivals. Poor Jules saw that it was, and 
already felt his honour engaged to ratify hopes which he had never 
intended to raise. Repeatedly he determined to leave the chateau, 
and never to see either of its lovely inmates more ; but whenever 
he hinted at such an intention, M. and Madame de G * * * * op- 
posed it in such a manner that it seemed impossible to persevere 
in it. They, good souls, were perfectly satisfied with the aspect 
of affairs : Isabeau was perhaps a little pale, but lovelier than ever ; 
and the eyes of Jules were so often fixed upon her, that there could 
be no doubt as to his feelings. They were very right, — yet, alas ! 
they were very wrong too : but the situation of Alexa put her so 
completely out of all question of marriage with a gentleman d\ne 
haute naissance, that they never even remembered that she too was 
constantly with Jules. 

About three weeks had passed in this mischief-working manner, 
when Isabeau, who clearly saw traces of suffering on the hand- 
some face of poor Jules, believing firmly that it arose from the 
probable difficulty of obtaining his high-born father's consent to 
his marriage with a foundling, determined to put every imaginable 
means in requisition to assist him. 

Alexa had upon her breast a mark, evidently produced by gun- 
powder. Her nurse, and everybody else who had seen it, de- 
clared it to be perfectly shapeless, and probably a failure from the 
awkwardness of some one who had intended to impress a cipher 
there ; but Isabeau had a hundred times examined it, and as often 
declared it to be a coronet. Hitherto this notion had only been a 
source of mirth to both of them, but now it became a theme of 
incessant and most anxious meditation to Isabeau. She remem- 
bered to have heard that when a child is deposited at the Found- 
ling Hospital of Paris, every thing, whether clothes or token, 
which is left with it, is preserved and registered, with the name 
and the date of the reception, in order, if reclamation be made 
within a certain time, that all assistance possible shall be given for 
-the identification. What space this "certain time" included Isa- 
beau knew not, but she fancied that it could not be less than 
twenty years ; and with this persuasion she determined to set 
about an inquiry that might at least lead to the knowledge either 
that some particular tokens had been left with Alexa, or that there 
were none. 

With this sort of feverish dream working in her head, Isabeau 
rose almost before daylight one morning, and escaping the obser- 
vation of every one, let herself out by the door of a salon which 
opened on the terrace, and hastened to the abode of Mere Fran- 
^oise. It was some time before she could make the old woman 
understand her object; but when 'she did, she declared herself 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 309 

ready to do all and every thing Mademoiselle desired for her " dear 
baby," as she persisted to call the tall, the graceful, the beautiful 
Alexa. 

As Isabeau had a good deal of trouble to make her plans and 
projects clearly understood to Mere Franqoise, it will be better not 
to relate particularly what passed between them : suffice it to say, 
that by dint of much repetition and a tolerably heavy purse, Fran- 
9oise at last agreed to set off for Paris on the following morning, 
" without telling a living soul what for." Such were the conditions 
enforced ; which were the more easily adhered to, because cross 
P^re Gautier had grumbled himself into his grave some years 
before. 

On reaching the hospital, Franqoise made her demand, " de la 
part d'une grande dame," for any token which they possessed rel- 
ative to a baby taken , . . &c. &;c. &c. The first answer she re- 
ceived was, that the time of limitation for such inquiries had long 
expired ; and she was on the point of leaving the bureau, all hope 
of intelligence abandoned, when an old sister of charity who 
chanced to be there for some message from the superior, and who 
had listened to her inquiries and all the particulars thus rehearsed, 
stopped her by saying, that it was odd enough two great ladies 
should send to the hospital with inquiries for the same child. 
*' But, however," she added, " it can't much matter now to either 
of them, for the baby died before it was a twelvemonth old." 

" Died !" screamed Francjoise : " why I saw her but four days 
ago, and a more beautiful creature the sun never shone upon." 

An explanation ensued, not very clear in all its parts, for there 
had evidently been some blunder ; but it plainly appeared, that 
within a year after the child was sent to nurse, inquiries had been 
made at the hospital for a baby bearing the singular name of 
Alexa, and stating that various articles were left with her express- 
ly to ensure the power of recognition. An address to a peasant 
in the country had been given to the persons who had made these 
inquiries, and application was immediately made to her : but she 
stated that the baby she had received from the hospital at the time 
named had died three months after she took it; but what name 
she.^ad received with it she could not remember, as she called it 
Marie, after the baby she had lost. It was evident from this state- 
ment that a mistake had been made between the two women, who 
had each taken a female foundhng into the country on the same 
day. 

It was more easy, however, to hit the blunder than to repair it 
Communication was immediately held with some of the chefs of 
the establishment ; who, having put in action every imaginable 
contrivance to discover any traces which might remain of the per- 
sons who had before inquired for the babe named Alexa, at length 



810 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

got hold of a man who had often acted as commissionnaire to the 
establishment, and who said he remembered about that time to 
have taken letters from the hospital to a fine hotel near the Elysee 
Bourbon. 

This man was immediately conveyed to the Elysee Bourbon, 
and without hesitation pointed out the mansion to which he had 
been sent. It was inhabited by an English gentleman blessed 
with a family of twelve children, who assured the gentleman in- 
trusted with the inquiry that he had not only never deposited any 
of his children at the Enfans Trouves, but that he could not give 
them the slightest assistance in discovering whether any of his 
predecessors in that mansion had done so. Discouraged, but not 
chilled in the ardour of his pursuit, the worthy gentleman pro- 
ceeded to the proprietor of the hotel : he had recently purchased 
it ; from him he repaired to the person from whom he had bought 
it. He was only an agent ; but at last, by means of indefatigable 
exertion during three days, he discovered that the individual who 
must have inhabited the hotel when these messages were stated to 
have been sent thither from the Enfans Trouves was a Russian 
nobleman of high rank, who, it was believed, was now residing at 
St. Petersburg. His name and title, however, were both remem- 
bered ; and these, with a document stating all that was known of 
the transaction, were dehvered to Mere Fran^oise, who, hardly 
knowing if she had succeeded or failed in her mission, returned to 
her young employer within ten days of the time she left her. 

Isabeau, generously as her noble heart beat at learning what she 
could not but consider as a favourable report of her embassy, did 
feel nevertheless something like a pang when she remembered to 
what this success would lead. But she mastered it, and, with all 
the energy of her character, instantly set to work to pursue her en- 
terprise to the end. It was certainly a relief to her when Jules, 
after passing a month of utter misery in the society of the woman 
he adored, took his leave. The old people were still perfectly 
satisfied : it was not the young man's business, they said, to break 
through the reserve which his parents had enjoined, and a few days 
would doubtless bring letters from them which would finally set' 
tie the business. 

Alexa saw him depart with an aching heart : but she believed 
that he was returning home only to ask his father's consent to their 
union. Isabeau fed her hopes, for she too believed that the young 
man's heart was given to Alexa. During this time Isabeau con- 
cealed her hope of discovering the parents of the foundUng from 
all. Day,after day wore away, and brought no tidings from Jules. 
The hope of Alexa gave way before this cruel silence. The cir- 
cumstances of her birth, which rankled at her heart more deeply 
than even her friend imagined, now came before her in a more 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 311 

dreadful shape than ever. Sin, shame, and misery seemed to her 
the only dower she had to bring in marriage, and her mind brooded 
over this terrible idea till it overpowered every other ; her love 
seemed to sink before it ; and, after a sleepless night of wretched 
meditation, she determined never to bring disgrace upon a husband 
— she heroically determined never to marry. 

As she was opening her heart on this sad subject to Isabeau, 
and repeating to her with great solemnity the resolution she had 
taken, a courier covered with dust galloped up to the door of the 
chateau. Isabeau instantly suspected the truth, but could only 
say, as she kissed the fair forehead of the foundling, " Look up, 
my Alexa ! . . . . You shall be happy, at least." 

Before any explanation of these words could even be asked for, 
a splendid travelling equipage stopped at the door, and, according 
to the rule in all such cases, a beautiful lady descended from it, 
handed out by a gentleman of princely rank : in brief, for 1 can- 
not tell you one half his titles and honours, or one quarter of the 
circumstances which had led to the leaving their only child at the 
Hopital des Enfans Trouves, Alexa was proved to be the sole and 
most lawful idol and heiress of this noble pair. The wonder and 
joy, and all that, you must guess : but poor Isabeau ! . , . . ! 
that all this happiness could but have fallen upon them before she 
had seen Jules de C ! 

On the following morning, while Alexa, seated between her pa- 
rents, was telling them all she owed to Isabeau, the door of the 
apartment opened, and the young Jules entered. This was the 
moment at which the happy girl fell the value of all she had 
gained with the most full and perfect consciousness of felicity. 
Her bitter humiliation was changed to triumph ; but Jules saw it 
not — he heard not the pompous titles of her father as she proudly 
rehearsed them, but, in a voice choking with emotion, he stam- 
mered out — " Where, then, is Isabeau ?" 

Alexa was too happy, too gloriously happy, to heed his want 
of politeness, but gayly exclaiming, " Pardon, maman !" she left 
the room to seek for her friend. 

Jules was indeed come on no trifling errand. His father, hav- 
ing waited in vain for some expression of his feelings respecting 
the charming bride he intended for him, at last informed him of his 
engagement, for the purpose of discovering whether the young 
man were actually made of ice or no. On this point he was 
speedily satisfied ; for the intelligence robbed the timid lover of all 
control over his feelings, and the father had the great pleasure of 
perceiving that his son was as distractedly in love as he could pos- 
sibly desire. As to his doubts and his fears, the experienced vi- 
comte laughed them to scorn. " Only let her see you as you look 
now, Jules," said the proud father, " and she will not disobey her 



312 PARIS ANB THE PARISIANS. 

parents, I will answer for it. Go to her, my son, and set your 
heart at ease at once." 

With a courage almost as desperate as that which leads a man 
firm and erect to the scaffold, Jules determined to follow this ad- 
vice, and arrived at Chateau Tourelles without having once thought 
of poor Alexa and her tell-tale eyes by the way ; — nay, even when 
he saw her before him, his only sensation was that of impatient 
agony that the moment which was to decide upon his destiny was 
still delayed. As Alexa opened the door to seek her friend, she 
appeared, and they returned together. At the unexpected sight 
of Jules, Isabeau lost her self-possession, and sank nearly faint- 
ing on a chair. In an instant he was at her feet. "Isabeau !" 
he exclaimed, in a voice at once solemn and impassioned — " Isa- 
beau ! I adore you — speak my fate in one word ! — Isabeau ! can 
you love me ?" 

f The noble strangers had already left the room. They perceived 
that there was some knotty point to be explained upon which 
their presence could throw no light. They would have led their 
daughter with them, but she lingered. " One moment .... and I 
will follow you," she said. Then turning to her almost fainting 
friend, she exclaimed, " You love him, Isabeau ! — and it is I who 
have divided you !".... She seized a hand of each, and joining 
them together, bent her head upon them and kissed them both. 
" God for ever bless you, perfect friend ! . . . I am still too happy ! 
.... Believe me, Jules — believe me, Isabeau, — I am happy — oh ! 
too happy !" The arms that were thrown round them both re- 
laxed as she uttered these words, and she fell to the ground. 

Alexa never spoke again. She breathed faintly for a few 
hours, and then expired, — the victim of intense feelings, too long 
and too severely tried. 

This story, almost verbally as I have repeated it to you, was 
told me by a lady who assured me that she knew all the leading 
facts to be true ; though she confessed that she was obliged to 
pass rather slightly over some of the details, from not remember- 
ing them perfectly. If the catastrophe be indeed true, I think it 
may be doubted whether the poor Alexa died from sorrow or 
from joy. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 313 



^LETTER LIX. 

Procfes Monstre — Dislike of the Prisoners to the ceremony of Trial — Societe des Droits 
de THomme — Names given to the Sections — Kitchen and Nursery Literature— Anec- 
dote of Lagrange — Republican Law. 

It is a long time since I have permitted a word to escape me 
about the trial of trials ; but do not therefore imagine that we 
are as free from it and its daily echo as I have kindly suffered 
you to be. 

It really appears to me, after all, that this monster trial is only 
monstrous because the prisoners do not like to be tried. There 
may perhaps have been some few legal incongruities in the man- 
ner of proceeding, arising very naturally from the difficulty of 
ascertaining exactly what the law is, in a country so often sub- 
jected to revolution as this has been. I own I have not yet 
made out completely to my own satisfaction whether these gen- 
try were accused in the first instance of high treason, or whether 
the whole proceedings rest upon an endictment for a breach of the 
peace. It is, however, clear enough. Heaven knows, both from 
evidence and from their own avowals, that if they were not 
arraigned for high treason, many of them were unquestionably 
guilty of it; and as they have all repeatedly proclaimed that it 
was their wish to stand or fall together, I confess that I see noth- 
ing very monstrous in treating them all as traitors. 

It is only within these few last hours that I have been made to 
understand what object these simultaneous risings in April, 1834, 
had in view. The document which has been now put into my 
hands appeared, I believe, in all the papers ; but it was to me, at 
least, one of the thousand things that the eye glances over with- 
out taking the trouble of communicating to the mind what it 
finds. I will not take it for granted, however, that you are as 
ignorant or unobservant as mj*f elf, and therefore I shall not re- 
cite to you the evidence I have just been reading to prove that 
the union calling itself " La Societe des Droits de I'Homme" was, 
in fact, the mainspring of the whole enterprise ; but in case the ex- 
pressive titles given by the central committee of this association 
to its different sections should have escaped you, I will transcribe 
them here, — or rather a part of them, for they are numerous 
enough to exhaust your patience, and mine too, were I to give 
them all. Among them I find, as pet and endearing names for 
their separate bands of employes, the following : Section Marat, 
Section Robespierre, Section Quatre-vingt-treize, Section des 



314 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Jacobins, Section de Guerre aux Chateau — Abolition de la Pro- 
priete — Mort aux Tyrans — Des Piques — Canon d'Alarme — Toc- 
sin — Barricade St. Meri, — and one which, when it was given, was 
only prophetic — Section de I'Insurrection de Lyon. These speak 
pretty plainly what sort of reform these men were preparing for 
France ; and the trying those belonging to them, who were taken 
with arms in their hands in open rebellion against the existing 
government, as traitors, cannot very justly, I think, be stigmatized 
as an act of tyranny, or in any other sense as a monstrous act. 

The most monstrous part of the business is their conceiving (as 
the most conspicuous among them declare they do) that their 
refusing to plead, or, as they are pleased to call it, " refusing to 
take any part in the proceedings," was, or ought to be, reason 
sufficient for immediately stopping all such proceedings against 
them. These persons have been caught, with arms in their 
hands, in the very fact of enticing their fellow-citizens into overt 
acts of rebellion ; but because they do not choose to answer when 
they are called upon, the court ordained to try them are stigma- 
tized as monsters and assassins for not dismissing them untried ! 

If this is to succeed, we shall find the fashion obtain vogue 
among us more rapidly than any of Madame Leroy's. Where is 
the murderer arraigned for his life who would not choose to make 
essay of so easy a method of escaping from the necessity of 
answering for his crime ? 

The trick is well imagined, and the degree of grave attention 
with which its availability is canvassed — out of doors at least — 
furnishes an excellent specimen of the confusion of intellect likely 
to ensue from confusion of laws amid a population greatly given 
to the study of politics. 

Never was there a finer opportunity for revolution and anarchy to 
take a lesson than the present. It is, I think, impossible for a 
mere looker-on, unbiased by party or personal feelings of any 
kind, to deny that the government of Louis Philippe is acting at 
this trying juncture with consummate courage, wisdom, and jus- 
tice : but it is equally impossible not to perceive what revolution 
and revolt have done towards turnfftg lawful power into tyranny. 
This is and ever must be inevitable, wherever there is a hope 
existing that the government which follows the convulsion shall 
be permanent. 

Fresh convulsions may arise — renewed tumult, destruction of 
property, and risk of life may ensue ; but at last it must happen 
that some strong hand shall seize the helm, and keep the reeling 
vessel to her stays, without heeding whether the grasp he has 
got of her be taken in conformity to received tactics or not. 

Hardly a day passes that I do not hear of some proof of in- 
creased vigour on the part of the present government of France ; 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 315 

and though I, for one, am certainly very far from approving the 
public acts which have given the present dynasty its power, 
I cannot but admire the strength and ability with which it is sus- 
tained. 

The example, however, can avail but little to the legitimate 
monarchs who still occupy the thrones their forefathers occupied 
before them. No legitimate sovereign, possessing no power be- 
yond what long-established law and precedent have given him, 
could dare show equal boldness. A king chosen in a rebellion is 
alone capable of governing rebels : and happy is it for the hot- 
headed jeunes gens of France that they have chanced to hit upon 
a prince who is neither a parvenu nor a mere soldier ! The first 
would have had no lingering kindness at all for the still-remem- 
bered glories of the land ; and the last, instead of trying them by 
the Chamber of Peers, would have had them up by fifties to a 
drum-head court-martial, and probably have ordered the most 
troublesome among them to be picked oif by their comrades, as an 
exercise at sharp-shooting, and as a useful example of military 
promptitude and decision. 

The present government has, indeed, many things in its favour. 
The absence of every species of weakness and pusillanimity in 
the advisers of the crown is one ; and the outrageous conduct of 
its enemies is another. 

It is easy to perceive in the journals, and indeed in all the 
periodical publications which have been hitherto considered as 
belonging to the opposition, a gradual giving way before the over- 
whelming force of expediency. Conciliatory words come dropping 
in to the steady centre from cote droit and from cote gauche ; and 
the louder the factious rebels roar around them, the firmer does 
the phalanx in which rests all the real strength of the country knit 
itself together. 

The people of France are fully awakened to the feeling which 
Sheridan so strongly expresses, when he says, that " the altar of 
liberty has been begrimed at once with blood and mire," and they 
are disposed to look towards other altars for their protection. 

All the world are sick of politics in England ; and all the world 
are sick of politics in France. It is the same in Spain, the same 
in Italy, the same in Germany, the same in Russia. The quiet 
and peaceably-disposed are wearied, worried, tormented, and al- 
most stunned, by the ceaseless jarring produced by the confusion 
into which bad men have contrived to throw all the elements of 
social life. Chaos seems come again — a moral chaos, far worse 
for the poor animal called man than any that a comet's tail could 
lash the earth into. I assure you I often feel the most unfeigned 
longing to be out of reach of every sight and sound which must 
perforce mix up questions of government with all my womanly 



316 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

meditations on lesser things ; but the necessity de parler politique 
seems like an evil spirit that follows whithersoever you go. 

I often think, that among all the revolutions and rumours of rev- 
olutions which have troubled the earth, there is not one so remark- 
able as that produced on conversation within the last thirty years. 
I speak not, however, only of that important branch of it — " the 
polite conversation of sensible women," but of all the talk, from 
garret to cellar, throughout the world. Go where you will, it is 
the same ; every living soul seems persuaded that it is his or her 
particular business to assist in arranging the political condition of 
Europe. 

A friend of mine entered her nursery not long ago, and spied 
among her baby-linen a number of the Westminster Quarterly 
Review. 

" What is this, Betty ?" said she. 

" It is only a book, ma'am, that John lent me to read," answer- 
ed the maid. 

" Upon my word, Betty," replied her mistress, " I think you 
would be much better employed in nursing the child than in read- 
ing books which you cannot understand." 

" It does not hinder me from nursing the child at all," rejoined 
the enlightened young woman, " for I read as the baby lies in my 
lap ; and as for understanding it, I don't fear about that, for John 
says it is no more than what it is the duty of everybody to under- 
stand." 

So political we are, and political we must be — for John says so. 

Wherefore I will tell you a little anecdote apropos of the Pro- 
ces Monstre. An English friend of mine was in the Court of 
Peers the other day, when the prisoner Lagrange became so noisy 
and troublesome that it was found necessary to remove him. He 
had begun to utter in a loud voice, which was evidently intended 
to overpower the proceedings of the court, a pompous and inflam- 
matory harangue, accompanied with much vehement action. His 
fellow-prisoners listened, and gazed at him with the most unequiv- 
ocal marks of wondering admiration, while the court vainly en- 
deavoured to procure order and silence. 

" Remove the prisoner Lagrange !" was at last spoken by the 
president — and the guards proceeded to obey. The orator strug- 
gled violently, continuing, however, all the time to pour forth his 
rhapsody. 

" Yes !" he cried, — *' yes, my countrymen ! we are here as a 
sacrifice. Behold our bosoms, tyrants ! . . . . plunge your assas- 
sin daggers in our breasts ! we are your victims .... ay, doom us 
all to death, we are ready — ^five hundred French bosoms are ready 
to ... ^ 

Here he came to a dead stop: his struggles, too, suddenly 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 317 

ceased .... He had dropped his cap, — the cap which not only- 
performed the honourable office of sheltering the exterior of his 
patriotic head, but of bearing within its crown the written product 
of that head's inspired eloquence ! It was in vain that he eagerly- 
looked for it beneath the feet of his guards ; the cap had been 
already kicked by the crowd far beyond his reach, and the 
bereaved orator permitted himself to be led away as quietly as a 
lamb. 

The gentleman who related this circumstance to me added, that 
he looked into several papers the following day, expecting to see 
it mentioned ; but he could not find it, and expressed his surprise 
to a friend who had accompanied him into court, and who had 
also seen and enjoyed the jest, that so laughable a circumstance 
had not been noticed. 

" That would not do at all, I assure you," replied his friend, 
who was a Frenchman, and understood the politics of the free 
press perfectly ; " there is hardly one of them who would not be 
afraid of making a joke of any thing respecting les prevenus 
d'Avriir 

Before I take my final leave of these precious prevenus, I must 
give you an extract from a curious volume lent me by my kind 
friend M. J * * * * *, containing a table of the law reports insert- 
ed in the Bulletin of the Laws of the Republic. I have found 
among them ordinances more tyrannical than ever despot passed 
for the purpose of depriving of all civil rights his fellow-men ; 
but the one I am about to give you is certainly peculiarly applica- 
ble to the question of allowing prisoners to choose their counsel 
from among persons not belonging to the bar, — a question which 
has been setting all the hot heads of Paris in a flame. 

"Law concerning the Revolutionary Tribunal of the 22d 
Prairial, in the second year of the French Republic one and 
indivisible. 

" The law gives for defenders to calumniated patriots (the word 
* accused' was too harsh to use in the case of these bloody 
patriots), patriotic juries. But it allows none to conspirators." 

What would the Liberals of Europe have said of King Louis 
Philippe, had he acted upon this republican principle ? If he had, 
he might perhaps have said fairly enough — 

" Cesar does never wrong Jbut with jvist cause," 

for they have chosen to take their defence into their own hands ; 
but how the pure patriots of I'an deuxieme would explain the 
principle on which they acted, it would require a republican to tell. 



318 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER LX. 

Memoirs of M. de Chateaubriand — The Readings at L'Abbaye-aux-Bois — Account of 
these in the French Newspapers and Reviews — Morning at the Abbaye to hear a 
portion of these Memoirs — The Visit to Prague. 

In several visits v^rhich we have lately made to the ever-delight- 
ful Abbaye-aux-Bois, the question has been started, as to the 
possibility or impossibility of ray being permitted to be present 
there " aux lectures des Memoires de M. de Chateaubriand." 

The apartment of my agreeable friend and countrywoman, 
Miss Clarke, also in this same charming abbaye, was the scene 
of more than one of these anxious consultations. Against my 
wishes — for I really was hardly presumptuous enough to have 
hopes — was the fact that these lectures, so closely private, yet so 
publicly talked of and envied, were for the present over — nay, 
even that the gentleman who had been the reader was not in Paris. 
But what cannot zealous kindness effect? Madame Recamier 
took my cause in hand, and ... in a word, a day was appointed 
for me and my daughters to enjoy this greatly-desired indulgence. 

Before telling you the result of this appointment, I must give 
you some particulars respecting these memoirs, not so much 
apropos of myself and my flattering introduction to them, as from 
being more interesting in the way of Paris literary intelligence 
than any thing I have met with. 

The existence of these memoirs is of course well known in 
England ; but the circumstance of their having been read chez 
Madame Recamier, to a very select number of the noble author's 
friends, is perhaps not so — at least, not generally ; and the extra- 
ordinary degree of sensation which this produced in the literary 
world of Paris was what I am quite sure you can have no idea 
of. This is the more remarkable, from the well-known pohtics 
of M. de Chateaubriand not being those of the day. The cir- 
cumstances connected with the reading of these memoirs, and 
the effect produced on the public by the peep got at them through 
those who were present, have been brought together into a very 
interesting volume, containing articles from most of the literary 
periodicals of France, each one giving to its readers the best 
account it had been able to obtain of these " lectures de I'Ab- 
baye." Among the articles thus brought together, are morceaux 
from the pens of every political party in France ; but there is not 
one of them that does not render cordial — I might say, fervent 
homage to the high reputation, both literary and political, of the 
Vicomte de Chateaubriand. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 319 

There is a general preface to this volume, from the pen of M. 
Nisard, full of enthusiasm for the subject, and giving an animated 
and animating account of all the circumstances attending the 
readings, and of the different publications respecting them which 
followed. 

It appears that the most earnest entreaties have been very 
generally addressed to M. de Chateaubriand to induce him to 
publish these memoirs during his lifetime, but hitherto without 
effect. There is something in his reasonings on the subject 
equally touching and true : nevertheless, it is impossible not to 
lament that one cannot wish for a work so every way full of 
interest, without wishing at the same time that one of the most 
amiable men in the world should be removed out of it. All 
those who are admitted to his circle must, I am very sure, most 
heartily wish never to see any more of his memoirs than what 
he may be pleased himself to show them : but he has found out 
a way to make the world at large look for his death as for a most 
agreeable event. Notwithstanding all his reasonings, I think he 
is wrong. Those who have seen the whole, or nearly the whole 
of this work, declare it to be both the most important and the 
most able that he has composed ; and embracing as it does the 
most interesting epoch of the world's history, and coming from 
the hand of one who has played so varied and distinguished a 
part in it, we can hardly doubt that it is so. 

Of all the different articles which compose the volume entitled 
" Lectures des Memoires de M. de Chateaubriand," the most inter- 
esting, perhaps (always excepting some fragments from the 
memoirs themselves), are the preface of M. Nisard, and an extract 
from the Revue du Midi, from the pen of M. de Lavergne. I 
must indulge you with some short extracts from both. M. Ni- 
sard says — 

" For many years M. de Chateaubriand has been engaged 
upon his own memoirs, with the intention, however, of not suffer- 
ing them to be published until after his death. Amid the great- 
est pressure of business, when he was ambassador or minister, 
he sought refuge from the great or little vexations and intrigues 
to which he was exposed, in adding some pages to this cherished 
volume. It is the work on which he has most wholly placed his 
affections, yet, strange to say, it is the work the fame of which 
he will not enjoy while living." 

He then goes on to speak of the manner in which the readings 
commenced .... and then says, " This reading was a triumph ; 
those who had been present described the scene to us who had 
not partaken of that enjoyment, and who lamented that the draw- 
ing-room of Madame Recamier, that queen of grace and good- 
ness, was not spacious as the plain of Sunium. The critical 



320 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

press overwhelmed the illustrious writer with entreaties for a 
few lines, of which it made precious relics ; and for the moment, 
criticism itself was but the announcement and the glorious suc- 
cess of an unpublished work." 

M. Nisard, as he says, " n'etait pas de la fete ;" but he was ad- 
mitted to a privilege perhaps more desirable still — namely, that 
of reading some portion of this precious MS. in the deep repose 
of the author's own study. He gives a very animated picture of 
this visit. 

" I made bold to ask of M. de Chateaubriand permission to 
visit him at his house, and there, without interrupting his occupa- 
tion of reading or writing, without requiring a moment of his 
attention, to be indulged with the possession of his manuscript, 
and leave to bury myself in it without control. He consented. 
On the appointed day, I proceeded to the Rue d'Enfer ; my heart 
palpitated — I am still young enough to be susceptible of keen emo- 
tion when on the eve of such a happiness as there awaited me. 
M. de Chateaubriand directed that his manuscripts should be 
brought. They fill three large portfolios, the possession of which 
none can dispute with him ; neither revolutions nor the caprices 
of a king can give or take them away. 

" He was kind enough to read to me the heads of the chapters 
— but which was 1 to choose ? which to prefer ? I did not inter- 
rupt him in his reading — I said nothing — at length he came to 
the account of his journey to Prague. An exclamation escaped 
me — of the forbidden fruit it was the most forbidden portion. J. 
made choice, then, of the journey to Prague. M. de Chateau- 
briand smiled, and handed me the manuscript. 

" Possessed of this treasure, I leaned my elbows upon the table, 
and betook myself to reading with an insatiable avidity. Some- 
times, at the end of a chapter, glancing from the page before me 
to the illustrious writer himself, deeply engaged in his laborious 
task of revision — now striking out a passage — then, after some 
hesitation, adding a phrase, and erasing it half completed, I be- 
held reason and imagination in conflict. When, at the close of 
my two hours of delight, amused, instructed, interested, trans- 
ported — having passed from laughter unto tears, and from tears 
again to laughter — having seen by turns, in his most unreserved 
candour of sentiment and expression, the poet, the statesman, the 
traveller, the pilgrim, the philosopher, I grasped the hand of M. 
de Chateaubriand, and poured out some incoherent words of grat- 
itude — neither he nor I was troubled or embarrassed ; on my part, 
because I did but give way to a deep and real feeling; on his, 
because he could estimate the value of my admiration by its evi- 
dent sincerity." 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 321 

This is, I think, very well conte ; and as I have myself been 
de la fete, and heard read precisely this same admirable morceau, 
le Voyage a Prague, I can venture to say that the feeling ex- 
pressed is in no- degree exaggerated. 

" And now what shall I say of these memoirs ?" he continues ; 
" of the journey to Prague, I feel myself restrained from speaking; 
I do not feel at liberty to betray the secret of M. de Chateau- 
briand ; but who that has followed him through all the acts of his 
glorious career, can fail to anticipate, with the exception of the 
secret details and the inimitable beauty of the style, the character 
impressed upon this portion of the work? Who does not know 
that in it will be found the truth as regards all — gentle towards 
those who have lost and suffered much, rigid in respect to those 
important nobodies who dispute and intrigue among themselves, 
for the possession of embassies and places at a court which has 
no longer even a cross of honour to bestow ? Who will not look 
to find in it the most eloquent lamentations for unheard-of misfor- 
tunes — sympathy for the miseries of exile — touching apostrophes 
to the decay of palaces in which fallen royalty seeks shelter — to 
those long galleries, lighted by a single lamp at either end, like a 
barrack or a cloister — to those guard-rooms without guards — those 
antechambers without a seat — those few attendants of whom one 
now performs the courtly duties that once gave employment to a 
dozen — in a word, to those misfortunes which, in contemplating 
from a distance, we pity for the sake of those who bear them, but 
when viewed near at hand, for our own. . . . And then, after his- 
tory comes poetry — after profound reflections come lively touches 
of description, gay and piquant observations, as if the traveller had 
not conversed, the night before, with the aged monarch of a lost 
kingdom." 

I have given you this passage because it describes better than 
I could do myself the admirable narrative which I had the pleas- 
ure of hearing. M. Nisard says much more about it, and with 
equal truth ; but I will only add his concluding words : — " Such is 
the journey to Prague. In reading it, I have been affected even 
to the deepest and tenderest emotions by these touching objects, 
and I have wept for the sorrows of fallen legitimacy, although 
never able to comprehend the enthusiasm, the devotion of loyal 
feeling, and accustomed from my youth to look upon the ' right 
divine of kings,' not merely with incredulity, but with enmity." 

I have transcribed this last observation for the purpose of prov- 
ing to you that the admiration inspired by this work of M. de 
Chateaubriand's is not the result of party feeling, but in com- 
plete defiance of it. 

In the "Revue de Paris" for March, 1834, is an extremely in- 
teresting article from M. Janin, who was present, I presume, at 

X 



322 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

the readings, and who must have been permitted, I think, now 
and then to peep over the shoulder of the reader, with a pencil in 
his hand, for he gives many short but brilliant passages from dif- 
ferent parts of the work. This gentleman states, upon what au- 
thority he does not say, that English speculators have already 
purchased the work at the enormous price of 25,000 francs for 
each volume. It already consists of twelve volumes, which 
makes the purchase amount to 12,000Z. sterling, — a very large 
sum, even if the acquisition could be made immediately availa- 
ble ; but as we must hope that many years may elapse before it 
becomes so, it appears hardly credible that this statement should 
be correct. 

Whenever these memoirs are published, however, there can be 
no doubt of the eagerness with which they will be read. M. 
Janin remarks, that, " M. de Chateaubriand, intending to write 
only his own memoirs, has in fact written the history of his age ;" 
and adds, " concerning which, we may predict, that if there never 
was an epoch more difficult to the historian, so never was there 
one, of which a more complete and admirable history has been 
written. It must be remembered, that while M. de Chateaubriand 
has written Ids memoirs, M. de Talleyrand has also been engaged 
upon his own. Chateaubriand and Talleyrand employed upon 
the same series of events ! One representing the loyal and poetic 
feeling of the age — the other its political and military character ; 
one the successor of Bossuet, the conservator of the religious 
principle — the other wearing the mantle of Voltaire, and never 
rendering homage but to doubt, that greatest truth of history ; one 
enthusiastic and sincere — the other cold and ironical ; the one al- 
ways eloquent, and in every place — the other eloquent in his 
elbow-chair, by his own fireside ; the one a man of genius, giving 
proof that he is such — the other willing to gain the reputation of 
a wit ; one full of expansive human feelings — the other less of an 
egotist than he is thought ; one good — the other less evil than he 
would be deemed ; the one leaping to his object, impetuous as a 
thunderbolt, or a phrase of Scripture — the other halting, but al- 
ways reaching first the goal ; the one always revealing himself 
when the other hides, speaking when he is silent — the other al- 
ways appearing at the right moment, rarely seen or heard, but who 
is everywhere, sees every thing, and knows almost as much ; the 
one followed by partisans, admirers, worshippers— the other sur- 
rounded by flatterers, servants, and dependants ; the one beloved, 
caressed, and sung — the other almost feared ; one always young — 
the other old even in youth ; the one always unsuccessful — the 
other never failing ; this the victim of defeated causes — that the 
hero of causes won ; this destined to finish his career, no one can 
tell where — that to die a prince, in his own palace, with an arch- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 323 

bishop administering the last solemn rites ; this writing his me- 
moirs, and reading them to his friends — -that also writing, but con- 
cealing what he has written ; one refusing to publish through ca- 
price- — the other because they will not be completed until a week 
after his death ; this the gentleman-in-waiting of contemporary- 
history, seeing it always in full dress — that its valet de chambre, 
knowing all its secrets and defects ; in short, one bearing the 
name of Chateaubriand, the other that of Prince of Benevento. 
Such are the two men whom the nineteenth century names be- 
forehand as its most to be dreaded judges, its most sagacious cen- 
sors, its conflicting historians, from whose revelations its charac- 
ter is to be determined by posterity." 

This parallel, though rather long perhaps, is very clever, and, 
a ce qu'on dit, very just. 

Though my extracts from this very interesting but not wadely- 
circulated volume have already run to a greater length than I in- 
tended, I cannot close it without giving you a small portion of M. 
de Lavergne's animated recital of the scene at the old Abbaye- 
aux-Bois ; — an abbaye, by-the-way, still partly inhabited by a 
society of nuns, and whose garden is sacred to them alone, though 
a portion of the large building which overlooks it is the property 
of Madame Recamier. 

" At one of the extremities of Paris may be seen an edifice, 
of a severe and simple style of architecture. The entrance is 
closed by an iron grate, and this grate is surmounted by a cross. 
A monastic quiet reigns throughout its courts, its staircases, and 
its corridors ; but under its solemn roof are also concealed retreats 
of elegance and taste which from time to time are thrown open to 
the world. This habitation bears the name of the Abbaye-aux- 
Bois — a picturesque and expressive appellation, breathing a cer- 
tain air of mystery and shade. But in one of its angles is a sa- 
loon which I must describe, for it often haunts me in my dreams. 
You know Gerard's picture of Corinna — that in which she is rep- 
resented sitting upon a rock at Cape Mysena, with her beautiful 
head upturned, her round and perfect arm suffered to hang list- 
lessly at her side, and her lyre unstrung ; her song is finished, 
but inspiration still beams upon her face and in her sparkling eyes : 
this picture occupies one side of the apartment, fronting the fire- 
place, above which are a mirror, lustres, and vases filled with 
flowers. Of the two other sides, one is pierced by two windows 
which overlook the peaceful gardens of the abbaye, and the other 
is concealed by shelves piled full of books. Elegant furniture 
adorns the room, scattered here and- there with a graceful disorder; 
in one of the corners is a door, and in the other a harp of the 
most perfect construction. 

" If I were to live thousands of years I should forget nothing 

X2 



324 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

of what I have seen in that room. Others recall to mind from 
the wanderings of their youth the remembrance of a glorious 
scene, or of some famous ruin ; as for me, I have never been in 
Greece ; but I have been admitted to that saloon, the most re- 
markable of the age and of Europe, where the very air one 
breathes is instinct with genius and with glory. There still lin- 
gers the ardent spirit of De Stael — there reappears to the imagin- 
ation which invokes it, the pale and melancholy face of Benjamin 
Constant — there re-echoes the clear voice of the illustrious Foy. 
All these noble dead of other days still render homage to her who 
was their friend ; for this is the apartment of a celebrated woman 
whose name the reader must already have conjectured. Madame 
Recamier belongs to history ; her name will ever shine among the 
brilhant ornaments of the passing age. Dazzling the world by her 
beauty, she has charmed it still more by the graces of her mind 
and heart. Mingling unavoidably, by reason of her illustrious 
friendships, among the great events of the time, she has passed 
through its vicissitudes unstained by its vices or its crimes ; and in 
her existence of pure ideality, misfortune and exile have but in- 
vested her with new attractions. To see her now, so calm and 
cheerful, no one could believe that the storms of life had clouded 
her younger days ; so simple and unthinking of self, one is tempted 
to believe her celebrity but a dream, and that the proudest brows 
of modern France have not bent in affectionate reverence before 
her. 

" One day in February last a number of friends were assembled 
in the drawing-room of Madame Recamier, for a reading. The 
party was not large, but the guests were such that no man, 
however lofty in fame or high in rank, might not pride himself on 

being present. 

******* 

" At length he appeared, whose name had gathered together such 
an audience, and all bowed before him. The reverend dignity of 
age was on his brow, but youth still sparkled in his eyes. He 
bore in his hand a package, enveloped in a silk handkerchief. . . . 
This noble old man was the author of * The Martyrs,' of ' The 
Genius of Christianity,' and of ' Rene' — that package contained 
the Memoirs of Chateaubriand ! But what a painful emotion was 
excited by the first words that were read — the title — ' Memoirs 

from beyond the tomb — Testamentary Preface !' " 

* * * # * * » 

I think that by this time you must be fully aware, my dear 
friend, that this intellectual fete to which we were invited at the 
Abbaye-aux-Bois was a grace and a favour of which we have 
very good reason to be proud. I certainly cannot remember to 
have ever been more gratified in every way than I was on this 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 325 

occasion. The thing itself, and the flattering kindness which per- 
mitted me to enjoy it, were equally the source of pleasure. I 
may say with all truth, like M. de Lavergne, " If I were to live 
thousands of years, I should never forget." 

The choice of the morceau, too, "touched me not a little : " of 
the forbidden fruit the most forbidden portion" was most assuredly 
what I should have eagerly chosen had choice been offered. M. 
de Chateaubriand's journey to Prague furnishes as interesting an 
historical scene as can well be imagined ; and I do not believe 
that any author that ever lived, Jean Jacques and Sir Walter not 
excepted, could have recounted it better — with more true feeling 
or more finished grace : simple and unaffected to perfection in its 
style, yet glowing with all the fervour of a poetical imagination, 
and all the tenderness of a most feeling heart. It is a gallery of 
living portraits that he brings before the eye as if by magic. 
There is no minute painting, however : the powerful, the painfully 
powerful effect of the groups he describes, is produced by the 
bold and unerring touch of a master. I fancied I saw the royal 
race before me, each one individual and distinct ; and I could 
have said, as one does in seeing a clever portrait, " That is a like- 
ness, I'll be sworn for it." Many passages made a profound im- 
pression on my fancy and on my memory ; and I think I could 
give a better account of some of the scenes described than I 
should feel justified in doing as long as the noble author chooses 
to keep them from the public eye. There were touches which 
made us weep abundantly ; and then he changed the key, and 
gave us the prettiest, the most gracious, the most smiling picture 
of the young princess and her brother that it was possible for pen 
to trace. She must be a fair and glorious creature, and one that 
in days of yore might have been likely enough to see her colours 
floating on the helm of all the doughtiest knights in Christendom. 
But chivalry is not the fashion of the day ; — there is nothing 
positif, as the phrase goes, to be gained by it ; — and I doubt if 
" its ineffectual fire" burn very brightly at the present time in any 
living heart, save that of M. de Chateaubriand himself. 

The party assembled at Madame Recamier's on this occasion 
did not, I think, exceed seventeen, including Madame Recamier 
and M. de Chateaubriand. Most of these had been present at 
the former readings. The Dutchesses de Larochefoucauld and 
Noailles, and one or two other noble ladies, were among them. I 
felt it was a proof that genius is of no party, when I saw a grand- 
daughter of General Lafayette enter among us. She is married 
to a gentleman who is said to be of the extreme cote gauche ; 
but I remarked that they both listened with as much deep interest 
to all the touching details of this mournful visit as the rest of us. 
Who, indeed, could help it? — This lady sat between me and. 



326 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Madame Recamier on one sofa ; M. Ampere the reader, and M. 
de Chateaubriand himself, on another, immediately at right angles 
with it, — so that I had the pleasure of watching one of the most 
expressive countenances I ever looked at, while this beautiful 
specimen of his head and his heart was displayed to us. On the 
other side of me was a gentleman whom I was extremely happy 
to meet — the celebrated Gerard ; and before the reading com- 
menced, I had the pleasure of conversing with him : he is one of 
those whose aspect and whose words do not disappoint the expec- 
tations to which high reputation always give birth. There was 
no formal circle ; — the ladies approached themselves a little 
towards the sofa which was placed at the feet of Corinne, and 
the gentlemen stationed themselves in groups behind them. The 
sun shone delicately into the room through the white silk curtains 
— delicious flowers scented the air — the quiet gardens of the 
abbaye stretched to a sufficient distance beneath the windows to 
guard us from every Parisian sound — and, in short, the whole 
thing was perfect. Can you wonder that I was delighted ? or 
that. I have thought "the occurrence worth dwelling upon with 
some degree of lingering fondness ? 

The effect this delightful morning has had on us is, I assure 
you, by no means singular : it would be easy to fill a volume with 
the testimonies of delight and gratitude which have been offered 
from various quarters in return for this gratification. Madame 
Tastu, whom I have heard called the Mrs. Hemans of France, 
was present at one or more of the readings, and has returned 
thanks in some very pretty lines, which conclude thus fervently :— - 

"Mat^te - 
S'incline pour saisir jusques aux moindres sons, 
Et men genou se ploie a demi, quand je pr^te, 

EnchantSe et muette, 

L'oreille a vos loQons !" 

Apropos of tributary verses on this subject, I am tempted to 
conclude my unmercifully long epistle by giving you some lines 
which have as yet, I believe, been scarcely seen by any one but 
the person to whom they are addressed. They are from the pen 
of the H. G. who so beautifully translated the first twelve cantos 
of the " Frithiof Saga," which was so favourably received in 
England last spring. 

H. G. is an Englishwoman, but from the age of two to seven- 
'teen she resided in the United States of America. Did I not tell 
you this, you would be at a loss to understand her allusion to the 
distant dwelling of her youth. 

This address, as you will perceive, is not as an acknowledg- 
ment for having been admitted to the abbaye, but an earnest 
prayer that she may be so ; and I heartily hope it will prove 
successfuL 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 327 



TO M. LE VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 

In that distant region, the land of the West, 
Where my childhood and youth glided rapidly by, 

Ah ! why was my bosom with sorrow oppress'd ? 
Why trembled the tear-drop so oft in mine eye ? 

No ! 'twas not that pleasures they told me alone 
Were found in the courts where proud monarchs reside ; 

My knee could not bend at the foot of a throne. 
My heart could not hallow an emperor's pride. 

But, oh ! 'twas the thought that bright genius there dwelt, 
And breathed on a few holy spirits its flame, 

That awaken'd the grief which in childhood I felt, 
When, Europe ! I mutter'd thy magical name. 

And now that as pilgrim I visit thy shore, 

I ask not where kings hold their pompous array ; 

But I fain would behold, and all humbly adore, 
The wreath which thy brows, Chateaubriand ! display. 

My -voice may well falter — unknown is my name. 
Bat say, must my accents prove therefore in vain? 

Beyond the Atlantic we boast of thy fame. 
And repeat that thy footstep has traversed our plain. 

Great bard ! — then reject not the prayer that I speak 
With trembling emotion, and offer thee now ; 

In thy eloquent page, oh ! permit me to seek 
The joys and the sorrows that genius may know. 

H. G. 



LETTER LXI. 

Jardin des Plantes — Not equal in beauty to our Zoological Gardens — La Salpltrifere— 
Anecdote^Les Invalides — Difficulty of finding English Colours there — The Dome. 

Another long morning on the other side of the water has 
given us abundant amusement, and sent us home in a very good- 
humour with the expedition, because, after very mature and 
equitable consideration, we v\^ere enabled honestly to decide that 
our Zoological Gardens are in few points inferior, in many equal, 
and in some greatly superior, to the long and deservedly cele- 
brated Jardin des Plantes. 

If considered as a museum and nursery for botanists, we cer- 
tainly cannot presume to compare our comparatively new institu- 
tion to that of Paris ; but, zoologically speaking, it is every way 
superior. The collection of animals, both birds and beasts, is, I 
think, better, and certainly in finer condition. I confess that I 
envy them their beautiful giraffe ; but what else have they which 
we cannot equal ? Then as to our superiority, look at the com- 
parative degree of beauty of the two enclosures. " O England !" 



328 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

as 1 once heard a linen-draper exclaim in the midst of his shop, 
intending in his march of mind to quote Byron — 

" O England ! with all thy faults, I can't help loving thee still." 

And I am quite of the linen-draper's mind : I cannot help loving 
those smooth-shaven law^ns, those untrimmed flowing shrubs, 
those meandering walks, now seen, now lost amid a cool green 
labyrinth of shade, which are so truly English. You have all 
this at the Zoological Gardens — we have none of it in the Jardin 
des Plantes ; and, therefore, I like the Zoological Gardens best. 
We must not say a word, my friend, about the lectures, or the 
free admission to them — that is not our forte ; and if the bour- 
geoisie go on much longer as they do at present, becoming 
greater and more powerful with every passing day, and learning 
to know, as their mercantile neighbours have long known, that it 
is quite necessary both governments and individuals should turn 
all things to profit ; — 

" Car dans le siede ovi nous sommes, 
On ne donne rien pour rien;" — 

if this happens, as I strongly suspect it will, then we shall have 
no more lectures gratis even in Paris. 

From the Jardin des Plantes, we visited that very magnificent 
hospital, La Salpetriere. I will spare you, however, all the fine 
things that might be said about it, and only give, you a little anec- 
dote which occurred while we stood looking into the open court 
where the imbecile and the mad are permitted to take their exer- 
cise. By-the-way, without at all presuming to doubt that there 
may be reasons which the managers of this establishment con- 
ceive to be satisfactory, why these wretched objects, in different 
stages of their dreadful calamity, should be thus for ever placed 
before each other's eyes, I cannot but observe, that the effect 
upon the spectator is painful beyond any thing I ever witnessed. 

With my usual love for the terrible, I remained immoveable for 
above twenty minutes, watching the manner in which they ap- 
peared to notice each other. If fancy did not cheat me, those 
who were least wildly deranged looked with a sort of triumph 
and the consciousness of superiority on those who were most so : 
some looked on the mad movements' of the others and laughed 
distractedly ; — in short, the scene is terribly full of horror. 

But to return to my anecdote. A stout girl, who looked more 
imbecile than mad, was playing tricks, that a woman who ap- 
peared to have some authority among them endeavoured to stop. 
The girl evidently understood her, but with a sort of dogged 
obstinacy persevered, till the nurse, or matron, or whatever she 
was, look hold of her arm, and endeavoured to lead her into the 
house. Upon this the girl resisted; and it was not without 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 329 

some degree of violence that she was at last conquered and led 
away, 

" What dreadful cruelty !" exclaimed a woman who, like our- 
selves, was indulging her curiosity by watching the patients. An 
old crone, a very aged and decrepit pensioner of the establish- 
ment, w^as passing by on her crutches as she spoke. She stopped 
in her hobbling walk, and addressing the stranger in the gentle 
voice of quiet good sense, and in a tone which made me fancy 
she had seen better days, said — " Dreadful cruelty, good woman ? 
. . . She is preventing her from doing what ought not to be done. 
If you had the charge of her, you would think it your duty to do 
the same, and then it would be right. But ' dreadful cruelty !' is 
easily said, and sounds good-hearted; and those who know not 
what it is to govern, generally think it is a sin and a shame to use 
authority in any way." And so saying, the old woman hobbled 
on, leaving me convinced that La Salpetriere did not give its shel- 
ter to fools only. 

From this hospital we took a very long drive to another, going 
almost from the extremes! east to the extremest west of Paris. 
The Invalides was now our object ; and its pleasant, easy, com- 
fortable aspect offered a very agreeable contrast to the scene we 
had left. We had become taciturn and melancholy at La Salpe- 
triere ; but this interesting and noble edifice revived our spirits 
completely. Two of the party had never been there before, and 
the others were eloquent in pointing out all that their former visits 
had shown them. No place can be better calculated to stimulate 
conversation ; there is so much to be said about our own Green- 
wich and Queen Elizabeth, versus Louis le Grand and the Inva- 
lides. Then we had the statue of a greater than he — even of 
Napoleon — upon which to gaze and moralize.*^ Some veteran had 
climbed up to it, despite a wooden leg, or a single arm perhaps, 
and crowned the still-honoured head with a fresh wreath of bays. 

While we stood looking at this, the courteous bow and prom- 
ising countenance of a fine old man arrested the whole party, and 
he was questioned and chatted to till he became the hero of his 
own tale, and we soon knew exactly where he had received his 
first wound, what were his most glorious campaigns, and, above 
all, who was the general best deserving the blessing of an old 
soldier. Those who, in listening to such chronicles in France, 
expect to hear any other name than that of Napoleon, will be dis- 
appointed. We may talk of his terrible conscriptions, of poison- 
ings at Jena, or forsakings at Moscow, as we will ; the simple fact 
which answers all is, that he was adored by his soldiers when he 
was with them, and that his memory is cherished with a tender 
enthusiasm to which history records no parallel. The mere tone 
of voice in which the name of " Napoleon !" or the title of 



330 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

*' L'Empereur !" is uttered by his veterans, is of itself enough to 
prove what he was to them. They stand taller by an inch when 
he is named, and throw forward the chest, and snuff the air, like 
an old war-horse that hears the sound of a trumpet. 

But still, with all these interesting speculations to amuse us, 
we did not forget what must ever be the primary object of a stran- 
ger's visit to the Invalides — the interior of the dome. But this 
is only to be seen at particular hours ; and we were too late for 
the early, and too early for the late, opening of the doors for this 
purpose. Four o'clock was the hour we had to wait for — as yet 
it was but three. We were invited into the hall and into the 
kitchen ; we were admitted, too, into sundry little enclosures, ap- 
propriated to some happy individuals favoured for their skill in 
garden craft, who, turning their muskets into hoes and spades, 
enjoy their honourable leisure ten times more than their idle 
brethren. In three out of four of these miniature domains we 
found plaster Napoleons of a foot high stuck into a box-tree or a 
rose-bush : one of these, too, had a wreath of newly-gathered 
leaves twisted round the cocked hat, and all three were placed 
and displayed with as much attention to dignity and effect as the 
finest statues in the Tuileries. 

If the spirit of Napoleon is permitted to hover about Paris, to 
indulge itself in gathering the scattered laurels of his posthumous 
fame, it is not to the lofty chambers of the Tuileries that it should 
betake itself ; — nor would it be greatly soothed by listening to the 
peaceful counsels of his once warlike marechals. No — if his 
ghost be well inspired, it will just glide swiftly through the gal- 
lery of the Louvre, to compare it with his earthly recollections ; 
balance itself for a moment over the statue of the Place Vendome, 
and abide, for the rest of the time allotted for this mundane visit, 
among his faithful invalids. There only would he meet a wel- 
come that would please him. The whole nation, it is true, dearly 
love to talk of his greatness ; but there is little now left in com- 
mon between them and their sometime emperor. 

France with a charter, and France without, differs not by many 
degrees so widely as France military, and France bourgeoise and 
boursi^re. Under Napoleon she was the type of successful war ; 
under Louis Philippe she will, I think — if the republicans will let 
her alone — become that of prosperous peace : a sword and a 
feather might be the emblem of the one — a loom and a long 

purse of the other. 

# * * * * ** 

But still it was not four o'clock. We were next invited to 
enter the chapel ; and we did so, determined to await the appointed 
hour reposing ourselves on the very comfortable benches provided 
for the veterans to whose use it is appropriated. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 331 

Here, stretched and lounging at our ease, we challenged each 
other to discover English colours among the multitude of con- 
quered banners which hung suspended above our heads. It is 
hardly possible that some such should not be there ; yet it is a 
positive fact, that not all our familiar acquaintance with the 
colours we sought could enable us to discover them. There is 
indeed one torn and battered relic, that it is just possible may 
have been hacked and sawed from the desperately firm grasp of 
an Englishman ; but the morsel of rag left is so small, that it was 
in fact more from the lack of testimony than the presence of it 
that we at length came to the conclusion that this relic of a stick 
might once have made part of an English standard. 

Not in any degree out of humour at our disappointment in this 
search after our national banner, we followed the guide who sum- 
moned us at last to the dome, chatting and laughing as cheerily 
and as noisily as if we had not been exhausting our spirits for the 
last four hours by sight-seeing. But what fatigue could not 
achieve was the next moment produced by wonder, admiration, 
and delight. Never did muter silence fall upon a talking group, 
than the sight of this matchless chapel brought on us. — Speech is 
certainly not the first or most natural resource that the spirit 
resorts to, when thus roused, yet chastened — enchanted, yet sub- 
dued. 

I have not yet been to Rome, and know not how I shall feel if 
ever I find myself under the dome of St. Peter's. There, I con- 
ceive that it is a sense of vastness which seizes on the mind ; 
here it is wholly a feeling of beauty, harmony, and grace. I 
know nothing like it anywhere : the Pantheon (ci-devant Ste. 
Genevieve), with all its nobleness and majesty, is heavy, and 
almost clumsy, when compared to it. Though possessing no 
religious solemnity whatever, and in this respect inferior beyond 
the reach of comparison to the choir of Cologne, or King's 
College Chapel at Cambridge, it nevertheless produces a stronger 
effect upon the senses than either of them. This is owing, I 
suspect, to the circumstance of there being no mixture of objects : 
the golden tabernacle seems to complete rather than destroy its 
unity. If I could give myself a fete,, it should be, to be placed 
within the pure, bright, lofty loveliness of this marble sanctuary, 
while a full and finished orchestra performed the chefs-d'oeuvre 
of Handel or Mozart in the church. 

M2 



33.2 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER LXIL 

Expedition to Montmorency — Rendezvous in the Passage Delorme — St. Denis — Tomb 
prepared for Napoleon — The Hermitage — Diner sur I'herbe. 

It is more than a fortnight ago, I think, that we engaged our- 
selves with a very agreeable party of twenty persons to take a 
long drive out of Paris and indulge ourselves with a very gay 
" diner sur I'herbe." But it is no easy matter to find a day on 
which twenty people shall all be ready and willing to leave Paris. 
However, a steadfast will can conquer most things. The whole 
twenty were quite determined that they would go to Montmorency, 
and to Montmorency at last we have been. The day was really 
one of great enjoyment, but yet it did not pass without disasters. 
One of these, which occurred at the moment of starting, very 
nearly overthrew the whole scheme. The place of general ren- 
dezvous for us and our hampers was the Galerie Delorme, and 
thither one of the party who had undertaken that branch of the 
business had ordered the carnages to come. At ten o'clock pre- 
cisely, the first detachment of the party was deposited with their 
belongings at the southern extremity of the gallery ; another and 
another followed till the muster-roll was complete. Baskets were 
piled on baskets ; and the passers-by read our history in these, 
and in our anxious eyes, which ceased not to turn with ever- 
increasing anxiety the way the carriages should come. 

What a supplice ! Every minute, every second, brought 

the rolling of wheels to our ears, but only to mock us : the wheels 
rolled on— no carriages came for us, and we remained in statu 
quo to look at each other and our baskets. 

Then came forth, as always happens on great and trying 
occasions, the inward character of each. The sturdy and firm- 
minded set themselves down on the packages, determined to abide 
the eyes of all rather than shrink from their intent. The timid 
and more frail of purpose gently whispered proposals that we 
should all go home again ; while others, yet listening to 

" Hope's enchanting measure, 
Which still promised coming pleasure," 

smiled, and looked forth from the gallery, and smiled again — ; 
though still no carriage came. 

It was, as I suspect, these young hopes and smiles which 
saved us from final disappointment : for the young men belonging 
to the cortege suddenly rousing themselves from their state of 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 333 

* 

listless watching, declared with one voice and one spirit that les 
denaoiselles should not be disappointed; and exchanging consignes 
which were to regulate the number and species of vehicles each 
was to seek — and find, too, on peril of his reputation, — they 
darted forth from the gallery, leaving us with renewed spirits and 
courage to bear all the curious glances bestowed upon us. 

Our half dozen aids-de-camp returned triumphantly in a few 
minutes, each one in his delta or his citadine ; and the Galerie 
Delorme was soon left far behind us. 

It is lucky for you that we had not to make a " voyage par mer" 
and " retour par terre," or my story might be as long — if resem- 
bling it in no other way — as the immortal expedition to St. Cloud. 
I shall not make a volume of it ; but I must tell you that we halt- 
ed at St. Denis. 

The church is beautiful — a perfect bijou of true Gothic archi- 
tecture — light, lofty, elegant ; and we saw it, too, in a manner pe- 
culiarly advantageous, for it had neither organ, altar, nor screen 
to distract the eye from the great and simple beauty of the original 
design. The repairs going on here are of a right royal character 
— on a noble scale and in excellent taste. Several monuments 
restored from the collection made under the Empire aux Petits 
Augustins are now again the glory of St. Denis ; and some of 
them have still much remaining which may entitle them to rank as 
very pure and perfect specimens of highly antiquated monumental 
sculpture. But the chiselled treasures of a thousand years' stand- 
ing cannot be made to travel about like the scenery of strolling 
players, in conformity to the will and whim of the successive actors 
who play the part of king, without great injury. In some instances 
the original nooks in this venerable mausoleum of royal bones have 
again received the effigies originally carved to repose within them ; 
but the regal image has rarely been replaced without showing it- 
self in some degree wayworn. In other cases, the monumental 
portrait, venerable and almost hallowed by its high antiquity, is 
made to recline on, a whitened sepulchre as bright as Parisian 
masonry can make it. 

Having fully examined the church and its medley of old and 
new treasures, we called a council as to the possibility of finding 
time for descending to the crypts ; but most of the party agreeing 
in opinion that we ought not to lose the opportunity of visiting 
what a wit among us happily enough designated " le Palais Royal 
de la Mort," we ordered the iron gates to be unbarred for us, and 
proceeded with some solemnity of feeling into the pompous tomb. 
And here the unfortunate result of that bold spirit of change which 
holds nothing sacred is still more disagreeably obvious than in the 
church. All the royal monuments of France that could be col- 
lected are assembled in this magnificent vault, but with such in- 



334 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

congruity of dates belonging to different parts of the same struc- 
ture, as alnaost wholly to destroy the imposing effect of this gor- 
geous grave. 

But if the spectator would seek farther than his eye can carry 
him, and inquire where the mortal relics of each sculptured mon- 
arch lie, the answer he will receive must make him believe that 
the royal dust of France has been scattered to the four winds of 
heaven. Nothing I have heard has sounded more strangely to me 
than the naivete with which our guide informed us that, among all 
this multitude of regal tombs, there was not one which contained 
a single vestige of the mortal remains of those they commemorate. 

For the love of good taste and consistency, these guardians of 
the royal sepulchre of France should be taught a more poetical 
lesson. It is inconceivable how, as he spoke, the solemn memo- 
rials of the illustrious dead, near which my foot had passed cau- 
tiously and my voice been mute, seemed suddenly converted into 
something httle more sacred than the show furnishing of a stone- 
mason's shop. The bathos was perfect. 

I could not but remember with a feeling of national pride the 
contrast to this presented by Westminster Abbey and St. George's 
Chapel. The monuments of these two royal fanes form a series 
as interesting in the history of art as of our royal Jine, and no pain- 
ful consciousness of desecration mixes itself with the solemn rev- 
erence with which we contemplate the honoured tombs. 

The most interesting object in the crypts of St. Denis, which 
comes upon the moral feeling with a force increased rather than 
diminished by the incongruities which surround it, is the door of 
the vault prepared by Napoleon for himself. It is inscribed, 

ICI REPOSENT 

LES DEPOUILLES MORTELLES 

BE 



This inscription still remains, as well as the massive brazen 
gates, with their triple locks, which were designed to close the 
tomb. These rich portals are not suspended on hinges, but rest 
against a wall of solid masonry, over which the above inscription 
is seen. The imperial vault thus chosen by the living despot as 
the sanctuary for bones which it was our fortune to dispose of else- 
where, is greatly distinguished by its situation, being exactly under 
the high altar, and in the centre of the crypts, which follow the 
beautiful curve of the Lady Chapel above. It now contains the 
bodies of Louis Dix-huit and the Due de Berri, and is completely 
bricked up. 

In another vault, at one end of the circular crypts, and perfectly 
excluded from the light of day, but made visible by a single fee- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 333 

ble lamp, are two coffins enclosing the remains of the two last 
defunct princes of the blood royal; but I forget their names. 
When I inquired of our conductor why these two coffins were 
thus exposed to view, he replied, with the air of a person giving 
information respecting what was as unchangeable as the laws of 
the Medes and Persians, " It is always so ;" adding, " When 
another royal corpse is interred, the one of these two which was 
the first deposited will be removed, to be placed beneath its mon- 
ument ; but two must ever remain thus." 

" Always" and " ever" are words which can seldom be used 
discreetly without some reservation ; but respecting any thing . 
connected with the political state of France, I should think they 
had better never be used at all. 

We returned to the carriages and pursued our pretty drive. 
The latter part of the route is very beautiful, and we all walked 
up one long steep hill, as much, or more, perhaps, to enjoy the 
glorious view, and the fresh delicious air, as to assist the horses. 

Arrived at the famous Cheval Blanc at Montmorency (a sign 
painted, as the tradition says, by no less a hand than that of 
Gerard, who, in a youthful pilgrimage with his friend Isabey to 
this region consecrated to romance, found himself with no other 
means of defraying their bill than by painting a sign for his host), 
we quitted our wearied and wearisome citadines, and began to 
seek, amid the multitude of horses and donkeys which stood 
saddled and bridled around the door of the inn, for twenty well- 
conditioned beasts, besides a sumpter-mule or two, to carry us 
and our provender to the forest. 

And, oh ! the tumult and the din that accompanied this selec- 
tion ! Multitudes of old women and ragamuffin boys assailed us on 
all sides. — "This way, madam ; this is my donkey; you won't 
find another like mine. . ." — " No, no, beautiful ladies, don't believe 
him ; mine is the best. . ." — " And you, sir, you want a horse, 
don't you, sir ? Here is a beauty. . ." 

The multitude of hoarse old voices, and shrill young ones, joined 
to our own noisy mirth, produced a din that brought out half the 
population of Montmorency to stare at us ; but at length we were 
mounted — and, what was of infinitely more consequence, and in- 
finitely more difficult also, our hampers and baskets were mount- 
ed too. 

But before we could think of the greenwood tree, and the gay 
repast to be spread under it, we had a pilgrimage to make to the 
shrine which has given the region all its fame. Hitherto we had 
thought only of its beauty, — who does not know the lovely sce- 
nery of Montmorency? — even without the name of Rousseau to 
give a fanciful interest to every path around it, there is enough 
in its hills and dales, its forest and its fields, to cheer the spirits 
and enchant the eye. 



336 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

A day stolen from the dissipation, the dust, and the noise of a 
great city, is always delightful ; but when it is enjoyed in the very 
fullest green perfection of the last days of May, when every new- 
born leaf and blossom is fully expanded to the delicious breeze, 
and not one yet fallen before it, the enjoyment is perfect. It is 
like seeing a new piece while the dresses and decorations are all 
fresh ; and never can the mind be in a state to taste with less of 
pain, and more of pleasure, the thoughts suggested by such a 
scene as the Hermitage. I have, however, no intention of indul- 
ging myself in a burst of tender feehng over the melancholy mem- 
ory of Rousseau, or of enthusiastic gratitude at the recollection of 
Gretry, though both are strongly brought before the mind's eye 
by the various memorials of each so carefully treasured in the lit- 
tle parlour in which they passed so many hours : yet it is impos- 
sible to look at the little rude table on which the first and greatest 
of these gifted men scribbled the " Heloise," or on the broken 
and untunable keys of the spinet with which the eloquent vis- 
ionary so often soothed his sadness and solitude, without some 
feeling tant soit peu approaching to the sentimental. 

Before the window of this small gloomy room, which opens 
upon the garden, is a rose-tree planted by the hand of Rousseau, 
which has furnished, as they told us, cuttings enough to produce a 
forest of roses. The house is as dark and dull as may be ; but 
the garden is pretty, and there is something of fanciful in its ar- 
rangement which makes me think it must be as he left it. 

The records of Gretry would have produced more effect if seen 
elsewhere, — at least I thought so ; — yet the sweet notes of " O 
Richard ! O mon roi !" seemed to be sounding in my ears, too, as 
I looked at his old spectacles, and several other little domestic 
relics that were inscribed with his name. But the " Reveries du 
Promeneur Solitaire" are worth all the notes that Gretry ever 
wrote. 

A marble column stands in a shady corner of the garden, bear- 
ing an inscription which states that her highness the Duchesse de 
Berri had visited the Hermitage, and taken " le coeur de Gretry" 
under her august protection, which had been unjustly claimed by 
the Liegeois from his native France. What this means, or where 
her highness found the great composer's heart, I could not learn. 

We took the objects of our expedition in most judicious order, 
fasting and fatigue being decidedly favourable to melancholy ; but, 
even with these aids, I cannot say that I discovered much propen- 
sity to the tender vein in the generality of our party. Sentiment 
is so completely out of fashion, that it would require a bold spirit 
to confess before twenty gay souls that you felt any touch of it 
There was one young Italian, however, of the party, whom I 
missed from the time we entered the precincts of the Hermitage ; 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. " 337 

nor did I see him till some time after we were all mounted again, 
and in full chase for the well-known chestnut-trees which have 
thrown their shadow over so many al-fresco repasts. When he 
again joined us, he had a rose in his buttonhole : I felt quite cer- 
tain that it was plucked from the tree the sad philosopher had 
planted, and that he at least had done homage to his shade, who- 
ever else had failed to do so. 

Whatever was felt at the Hermitage, however, was now left be- 
hind us, and a less larmoyante party never entered the Forest of 
Montmorency. When we reached the spot on which we had fixed 
by anticipation for our salle-ci-manger, we descended from our 
various montures, which were immediately unsaddled and permit- 
ted to refresh themselves, tied together in very picturesque groups, 
while all the party set to work with that indescribable air of con- 
tented confusion and happy disorder which can only be found at a 
pic-nic. I have heard a great many very sensible remarks, and 
some of them really very hard to answer, upon the extreme ab- 
surdity of leaving every accommodation which is considered need- 
ful for the comfort of a Christian-like dinner, for the sole purpose 
of devouring this needful repast without one of them. What can 
be said in defence of such an act ? . . , Nothing — except perhaps 
that, for some unaccountable reason or other, no dinner through- 
out the year, however sumptuously served or delicately furnished, 
ever does appear to produce one half so much light-hearted enjoy- 
ment as the cold repast round which the guests crouch like so 
many gipsies, with the turf for their table and a tree for their can- 
opy. It is very strange — but it is very true ; and as long as men 
and women continue to experience this singular accession of good 
spirits and good-humour from circumstances which might be rea- 
sonably expected to destroy both, nothing better can be done than 
to let them go on performing the same extraordinary feat as long 
as the fancy lasts. 

And so we sat upon the grass, caring little for what the wise 
might say of us, for an hour and a half at the very least. Our at- 
tendant old women and boys, seated at convenient distance, were 
eating as heartily and laughing as merrily as ourselves ; while our 
beasts, seen through the openings of the thicket in which they 
were stabled, and their whimsical housings piled up together at 
the foot of an old thorn at its entrance, completed the composition 
of our gipsy festival. 

At length the signal was given to rise, and the obedient troop 
were on their feet in an instant. The horses and the asses were 
saddled forthwith : each one seized his and her own and mounted. 
A council was then called as to whither we should go. Sundry 
forest paths stretched away so invitingly in different directions, 
that it was difficult to decide which we should prefer. *' Let us 

Y 



338 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

all meet two hours hence at the Cheval Blanc," said some one of 
brighter wit than all the rest : whereupon we all set off, fancy-led, 
by twos and by threes, to put this interval of freedom and fresh 
air to the best account possible. 

I was strongly tempted to set off directly for Eaubonne. Though 
I confess that Jean Jacques's descriptions (lant vantees !) of some 
of the scenes which occurred there between himself and his good 
friend Madame d'Houdetot, in which she rewards his tender pas- 
sion by constant assurances of her own tender passion for Saint 
Lambert, have always appeared to me the very reverse of the sub- 
lime and beautiful ; yet still the place must be redolent of the man 
whose " Reveries" have made its whole region classic ground : 
and, go where 1 will, 1 always love to bring the genius of the place 
as near to me as possible. But my wishes were ejOfectually check- 
ed by the old lady whose donkey carried me, 

" Oh ! dame — il ne faut pas aller par la .... ce n'est pas 1^ le 
beau point de vue ; laissez-moi faire . . . . et vous verrez . . . ." 

And then she enumerated so many charming points of forest 
scenery that ought to be visited by " tout le monde," that I and my 
companions decided it would be our best course to permit the 
laisser faire she asked for ; and accordingly we set off in the di- 
rection she chose. We had no cause to regret it, for she knew 
her business well, and, in truth, led us as beautiful a circuit as it 
was well possible to imagine. If I did not invoke Rousseau in 
his bosquet d'Eaubonne, or beside the " cascade dont," as he says, 
"je lui avais donne Pidee, et qu'elle avait fait executer,^^ — (Rous- 
seau had never seen Niagara, or he would not have talked of his 
Sophie's having executed his idea of a cascade) — though we did 
not seek him there, we certainly met him, at every step of our 
beautiful forest path, in the flowers and mosses whose study form- 
ed his best recreation at Montmorency. " Herboriser" is a word 
which, I think, with all possible respect for that modern strength 
of inteiiect that has fixed its stigma upon sentiment, Rousseau has 
in some sort consecrated. There is something so natural, so gen- 
uine, so delightfully true in his expressions, when he describes the 
pleasure this occupation has given him, contrasted as it is with his 
sour and querulous philosophy, and still more perhaps with the 
eloquent but unrighteous bursts of ill-directed passion, that its im- 
pression on my mind is incomparably greater than any he has 
produced by other topics. 

" Brillantes fieurs, email des pres t" .... is an exclamation a 
thousand times more touching, coming from the poor solitary J. J. 
at sixty-five, than any of the most passionate exclamations which 
he makes St. Preux utter ; and for this reason the woods of Mont- 
morency are more interesting from their connexion with him than 
any spot the neighbourhood of Vevay could offer. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 339 

The view from the Rendezvous de Chasse is glorious. While 
pausing to enjoy it, our old wonaan began talking politics to us. 
She told us that she had lost two sons, who both died fighting be- 
side " notre grand Empereur,^'' who was certainly " le phis grand 
homnne de la terre ; cependant, it was a great comfort for poor 
people to have bread for onze sous — and that was what Kmg 
Louis PhiUppe had done for them." 

After our halt, we turned our heads again towards the town, 
and were peacefully pursuing our dehciously cool ride under the 
trees, when a holla ! from behind stopped us. It proceeded from 
one of the boys of our cortege, who, mounted upon a horse that 
one of the party had used, was galloping and hollaing after us 
with all his might. The information he brought was extremely 
disagreeable : one of the gentlemen had been thrown from his 
horse and taken up for dead ; and he had been sent, as he said, to 
collect the party together, to know what was to be done. The 
gentleman who was with our detachment immediately accompa- 
nied the boy to the spot ; but as the unfortunate sufferer was 
quite a stranger to me, and was already surrounded by many of 
the party, I and my companion decided upon returning to Mont- 
morency, there to await at Le Cheval Blanc the appearance of the 
rest. A medical man, we found, had been already sent for. 
When at length the whole party, with the exception of this unfor- 
tunate young man and a friend who remained with him, were as- 
sembled, we found, upon comparing notes together, that no less 
than four of our party had been unhorsed or undonkeyed in the 
course of the day ; but happily three of these were accidents fol- 
lowed by no alarming results. The fourth was much more se- 
rious ; but the report from the Montmorency surgeon, which we 
received before we left the town, assured us that no ultimate dan- 
ger was to be apprehended. 

One circumstance atiending this disagreeable contre-tems was 
very fortunate. The accident took place at the gates of a chateau, 
the owners of which, though only returned a ie-w hours before 
from a tour in Italy, received the sufferer and his friend with the 
greatest kindness and hospitality. Thus, though only eighteen of 
us returned to Paris to recount the day's adventures, we had at 
least the consolation of having a very interesting, and luckily not 
fatal, episode to narrate, in which a castle and most courteous 
knights and dames bore a part, while the wounded cavalier on. 
whom their generous cares were bestowed had not only given 
signs of life, but had been pronounced, to the great joy of all the 
company, quite out of danger either of life or limb. 

So ended our day at Montmorency, which, spite of our mani- 
fold disasters, was declared upon the whole to have been one of 
very great enjoyment. 

Y 2 



MO PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 



LETTER LXIIL 

, George Sand, 

I HATE more than once mentioned to you my oBseirations om 
the reception given in Paris to that terrible school of composition 
•which derives its power from displaying, with strength that exag- 
gerates the vices of our nature, all that is worst and vilest in the 
human heart. I have repeatedly dwelt upon the subject, because 
it is one which I have so often heard treated unfairly, or at least 
ignorantly,. in England ; and a love of truth and justice has there- 
fore led me to assure you, with reiterated protestations, that nei- 
ther these mischief-doing works nor their authors meet at all a 
better reception in Paris than they would in London. 

It is this same love of truth and justice which prompts me to 
separate from the pack one who nature never intended should be- 
long to it. The lady who writes under the signature of George 
Sand cannot be set aside by the sternest guardian of public mor- 
als without a sigh. With great — perhaps, at the present moment,, 

with unequalled power of writing, Madame de D perpetually 

gives indications of a heart and mind which seem to prove that it 
was intended her place should be in a very different set from that, 
with which she has chosen to mingle. 

It is impossible that she should write as she has done without 
possessing some of the finest qualities of human nature ; but she 
is and has been tossed about in that whirlpool of unsettled prin- 
ciples, deformed taste, and exaggerated feeling, in which the dis- 
tempered spirits of the day delight to bathe and disport them- 
selves, and she has been stained and bruised therein. Yet she 
has nothing in common with their depraved feelings and distorted 
strength ; and there is so much of the divine spirit of real genius 
within her, that it seems as if she could not sink in the vortex 
that has ingulfed her companions. She floats and rises stilly 
and would she make one bold effort to free herself from this 
slough, she might yet become one of the brightest ornaments of 
the age. 

Not her own country only, but all the world have claims on 
her ; for genius is of no nation, but speaks in a language that cars 
be heard and understood by all. And is it possible that such a 
mind as hers can be insensible to the glory of enchanting the 
best and purest spirits in the world ? . . . Can she prefer the pal- 
try plaudits of the obscure herd who scorn at decency, to th© 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, S4l 

universal hymn of love and praise which she mu«t hear rising 
from the whole earth to do honour to the holy muse of Walter 
Scott ? 

The powers of this lady are of so high an order as in fact 
to withdraw her totally, though seemingly against her will, from 
from all literary companionship or competition with the multitude 
of little authors whose moral theories appear of the same colour 
as her own; and in the tribute of admiration which justice com- 
pels me to pay her, my memory dwells only on such passages 
as none but herself could write, and which happily all the world 
may read. 

It is sad, indeed, to be forced to read almost by stealth volumes 
which coatain such passages, and to turn in silence from the lec- 
ture with one's heart glowing with admiration of thoughts that 
one might so proudly quote and boast of as coming from the pen 
of a woman! But, alas] her volumes are closed to the young 
and innocent, and one may not dare to name her among those to 
whom the memory clings with gratitude as the giver of high men- 
tal enjoyment. 

One strong proof that the native and genuine bent of her 
genius would carry her far above and quite out of sight of the 
whole decousu school is, that, with all her magical grace of ex- 
pression, she is always less herself, less original, a thousand 
times less animated and inspired, when she sets herself to paint 
scenes of unchaste love, and of unnatural and hard indifference to 
decorum, than when she throws the reins upon the neck of her 
own Pegasus, and starts away into the bright region of unsoiled 
thoughts and purely intellectual meditation, 

I should be sorry to quote the titles of any books which ought 
never to have been written, and which had better not be read, 
even though there should be buried in them precious gems of 
thought and expression which produce the effect of a ray of sun- 
shine that has entered by a crevice into a dark chamber; but 
there are some morsels by George Sand which stand apart from 
the rest, and which may be cited without mischief, " La Revue 
des Deux Mondes" has more than once done good service to the 
public by putting forth in its trustworthy pages some of her shorter 
works. Among these is a little story called " Andre," which, if 
not quite faultless, may yet be fairly quoted to prove of what its 
author might be capable. The character of Genevieve, the 
heroine of this simple, natural little tale, is evidence enough that 
George Sand knows what is good. Yet even here what a strange 
perversity of purpose and of judgment peeps out ! She makes 
this Genevieve, whose character is conceived in a spirit of purity 
and delicacy that is really angelic,— she makes this sweet and 
exquisitely innocent creature fall into indiscretion with her lover 



342 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

before she marries him, though the doing so neither affects the 
story nor changes the catastrophe in the sHghtest degree. It is 
an impropriety a pure perte, and is, in fact, such a deplorable 
incongruity in the character of Genevieve — so perfectly gratui- 
tous and unnecessary, and so utterly out of keeping with the rest 

of the picture, that it really looks as if Madame D might not 

publish a volume that was not timbre with the stamp of her 
clique. It would not, I suppose, pass current among them with- 
out it. 

I know not where I should look in order to find thoughts more 
true, or fanciful ideas more beautifully expressed, than I have met 
with in this same story, where the occupations and reveries of its 
heroine are described. Genevieve is by profession a maker of 
artificial flowers, and the minute study necessary to enable her 
to imitate skilfully her lovely models has led her to an intimate 
acquaintance with them, the pleasures of which are described, 
and her love and admiration of them dwelt upon, in a strain that I 
am quite persuaded none other but George Sand could ulter. It 
is evident, indeed, throughout all her writings, that the works of 
nature are the idols she worships. In the " Letlres d'un Voya- 
geur," — which, I trust, are only begun, for it is here that the author 
is perfect, unrivalled, and irreproachable, — she gives a thousand 
proofs of a heart and imagination which can only be truly at home 
when far from " the rank city." In writing to a friend in Paris, 
whom she addresses as a person devoted to the cares and the 
honours of public life, she says, — " When thou beholdest a poor 
bird upon the wing, thou enviest its flight and longest for the 
skies." Then she exclaims, "Why can I not bear thee with me 
t^pon the wings of the inconstant winds, give thee to breathe the 
pure inspiring air of solitude, and teach thee the secrets of the 
poets and the Zingar !" She has learned that secret, and the use 
she makes of it places her, in my estimation, wondrously above 
most of the descriptive poets that France has ever boasted. Yet 
her descriptions, exquisite as they sometimes are, enchant me 
less perhaps than the occasional shooting, if I may so express it, 
of a bold new thought into the regions of philosophy and meta- 
physics ; but it is done so lightly, so playfully, that it should seem 
she was only jesting when she appears to aim thus wildly at ob- 
jects so much beyond a woman's ken. " All the thrones of the 
earth compare not in my estimation with a little flower blooming 
on the shore of some Alpine lake," she says ; and then starts off 
with this strange query : " It would be a curious subject for 
speculation and inquiry, whether Providence has greater love and 
consideration for our bony frames, than for the odoriferous petals 
of these jasmines." 

She professes herself (of course) to be a republican; but only 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 343 

says of it, "Of all the causes about which I care nothing, it is 
the noblest ;" and then adds, quite in her own vein, " At all events, 
the sounds of ' liberty' and ' country' are harmonious — while those 
of ' legitimacy' and ' obedience' are rough, ungraceful, and suited 
only for the ears of soldiers and police-men." . . . . " To worship 
a crowned log is," she declares, " to renounce the dignity of hu- 
man nature, and descend to the level of an academician." 

However, she quizzes her political friend for being " the slave 
of a noble ambition ;" adding, " Rule them well, those stupid and 
low-minded idiots .... I will go, meanwhile, and perch upon a 
branch and sing." 

In another place, she says that she is " good for nothing but to 
prattle with the echo, to gaze upon the rising moon, and to com- 
pose sad or mocking rhymes for studious poets, or for schoolboys 
who are in love." 

As a specimen of what this writer's powers of description are, 
I will give you a few lines from a little story called " Mattea," — 
a story, by-the-way, that is beautiful, one hardly knows why, — 
just to show you how she can treat a theme worn threadbare be- 
fore she was born. Is there, in truth, any picture much less new 
than that of a gondola, with a guitar in it, gliding along the canals 
of Venice ? But see what she makes of it. 

"The guitar really exists in Venice only, that city of music and 
of silence. When a gondola flits along that stream of phospho- 
rescent ink, which at every stroke of the oar breaks into a flash 
of light, and a flood of graceful, gay, unstudied tones comes 
dancing from the chords, swept by an unseen hand, you long to 
grasp and to prolong that slight but impressive melody, which 
charms the ear of casual listeners, and flits along beneath the 
shadow of the palaces, as if to summon beauty to the balconies, 
and disappoint them as it glances on, with the sportive mock, 
' The serenade is not for you, and you know not whence it comes 
or where it goes.' " 

Could Rousseau himself have chosen apter words ? Do they 
not seem an echo to the sound she describes ? 

The private history of an author ought never to mix itself with 
a judgment of his works. Of that of George Sand I know but 
little ; but divining it from the only source that the public has any 
right to examine, — namely, her writings, — I should be disposed 
to believe that her story is the old one of affection either ill re- 
quited, or in some way or other unfortunate ; and the passages 
which seem to indicate this are written in a spirit that, let the 
circumstances be what they will, must do her honour. 

Who is there but must wish that all the great and good qualities 
of this gifted woman (for she must have both) should break forth 
from whatever cloud sorrow or misfortune of any kind may have 



344 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

thrown over her, and that the rest of her days may pass in the 
tranquil development of her extraordinary talents, and in such a 
display of them to the public as shall leave its admiration un- 
mixed ? 



LETTER LXIV. 

" Angelo Tyran de Padoue" — Burlesque at the Theatre du Vaudeville— Mademoiselle 
Mars — Madame Dorval — Epigram. 

We have seen and enjoyed many very pretty, very gay little 
pieces at most of the theatres since we have been here ; but we 
never, till our last visit to the Theatre Fran^ais, enjoyed that un- 
controllable movement of merriment which, setting all lady-like 
nonchalance at defiance, obliged us to yield ourselves up to hearty, 
genuine laughter ; in which, however, we had the consolation of 
seeing many of those around us join. 

And what was the piece, can you guess, which produced this 
effect upon us ? ... It was " Angelo !" It was the " Tyran de 
Padoue" — pas doux du tout, as the wits of the parterre aver. 
But, in truth, I ought not to assent to this verdict, for never tyrant 
was so doux to me and mine as this, and never was a very long 
play so heartily laughed at to the end. 

But must I write to you in sober earnest about this comic 
tragedy ? I suppose I must ; for, except the Proces Monstre, 
nothing has been more talked of in Paris than this new birth of 
M. Hugo. The cause for this excitement was not that a new 
play from this sufficiently well-known hand was about to be put 
upon the scene, but a circumstance which has made me angry 
and all Paris curious. This tragedy, as you shall see presently, 
has two heroines who run neck and neck through every act, leaving 
it quite in doubt which ought to come in prima donna. Made- 
moiselle Mars was to play the part of one — but who could venture 
to stand thus close beside her in the other part? — nobody at the 
Franpais, as it should seem : and so, wonderful to tell, and almost 
impossible to believe, a lady, a certain Madame Dorval, well 
known as a heroine of the Porte St. Martin, I believe, was enlisted 
into the corps of the Fran(jais to run a tilt with — Mars. 

This extraordinary arrangement was talked of, and asserted, 
and contradicted, and believed, and disbelieved, till the noise of it 
filled all Paris. You will hardly wonder, then, that the appearance 
of this drama has created much sensation, or that the desire to see 
it should extend beyond the circle of M. Hugo's young admirers. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 345 

I have been told, that as soon as this arrangement was publicly- 
made known, the applications for boxes became very numerous. 
The author was permitted to examine the list of all those who had 
applied, and no boxes were positively promised till he had done 
so. Before the night for the first representation was finally fixed, 
a large party of friends and admirers assembled at the poet's 
house, and, among them, expunged from this list the names of all 
such persons as were either known or suspected to be hostile to 
him or his school. Whatever deficiencies this exclusive system 
produced in the box-book were supplied by his particular partisans. 
The result on this first night was a brilliant success,. 

" The author of Cromwell," says the Revue des Deux Mondes, 
"has proclaimed, as with the voice of authority, the fusion of 
tragedy and comedy in the melodrame." It is for this reason, 
perhaps, that M. Hugo has made his last tragedy so irresistibly 
comic. The dagger and the bowl bring on the catastrophe, — 
therefore, sa7is contredire, it is a tragedy : but his playful spirit 
has arranged the incidents and constructed the dialogue, — there- 
fore, sans faute, it is a comedy. 

In one of his exquisite prefaces, M. Hugo says, that he would 
not have any audience quit the theatre without carrying with them 
" quelque moralite austere et profonde :" and I will now make it 
my task to point out to you how well he has redeemed this 
promise in the present instance. In order to shake off all the old- 
fashioned trammels which might encumber his genius, M. Hugo 
has composed his " Angelo" in prose, — prose such as old women 
love — (wicked old women, I mean), — lengthy, mystical, gossiping, 
and mischievous. I will give you some extracts ; and, to save the 
trouble of describing the different characters, I will endeavour so 
to select these extracts that they shall do it for me. Angelo 
Tyran de Padoue thus speaks of himself: — 

" Yes . . I am the podesta whom Venice gives to rule o'er Padua 
. . . And would you know what is Venice ? It is the Council 
of Ten. Oh, the Council of Ten ! . . . Often in the depths of 
night I start up erect and motionless, I listen eagerly, and hear 
the sound of stealthy footsteps in my walls . . , Yes, it is so, 
tyrant of Padua, but slave of Venice. I am well watched, in- 
deed. Oh, the Council of Ten !" 

This gentleman has a young, beautiful, and particularly esti- 
mable wife, by name Catarina Bragadini (which part is enacted 
on the boards of the Theatre Franqais by Madame Dorval, from 
the Theatre de la Porte St. Martin), but unfortunately he hates 
her violently. He could not, however, as he philosophically 
observes himself, avoid doing so, and he shall again speak for 
himself to explain this. 

" Angelo. — Haired is in our blood. A Malipieri cannot exist 



346 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

without some object of his hatred. As for me, it is this woman 
whom I hate. I am no better than herself, perhaps, but it mat- 
ters not — she must die. It is a necessity — a thing decreed." 

This necessity for haiing does not, however, prevent the po- 
desta from falling very violently in love with a strolling actress 
called La Tisbe (personated by Mademoiselle Mars). The Tisbe 
also is a very remarkably virtuous, amiable, and high-minded 
woman, who listens to the addresses of the tyrant pas doux, but 
hates him as cordially as he hates his lady-wife, bestowing all 
her tenderness and private caresses upon a travelling gentleman, 
who is a prince in disguise, but whom she passes off upon the 
tyrant for her brother. La Tisbe, too, shall give you her own 
account of herself. 

"La Tisbe (addressing Angelo). — You know not what I am? 
Nothing — a mere creature of the herd — an actress. Well ! hum- 
ble as I am, I had a mother. Do you know what it is to have a 
mother? have you had one yourself? Well, I too had a mother." 

This appears to be a species of refinement upon the old saying, 
" It is a wise child that knows its own father." The charming 
Tisbe evidently piques herself upon her sagacity in being quite 
certain that she had a mother ; — but she has not yet finished her 
story. 

" She was a poor woman, without a husband, who sang ballads 
along the streets." (The delicate Esmeralda again.) "One day, a 
senator passed where she stood. He gazed, he listened" (she 
must have been singing the ga ira of 1549), "and said to the 
officer who followed him, ' To the gallows with that woman !' 
My mother was seized on the spot — she made no resistance — 
what good would it have done ? She kissed me and bathed me 
with her tears, took her crucifix, and went away to be hung. I 
still see that crucifix of copper gilt, with my name Tisbe en- 
graved at the foot . . . But the senator had with him a young girl 
She threw herself at his feet, and obtained from him my 
mother's pardon . . . When my mother was released, she took 
her crucifix, my mother did, and gave it to the dear child, saying, 
' Keep that crucifix, madame — it will bring you good luck.' " 

Imagine Mademoiselle Mars uttering this trash ! . . . . Oh, it 
was grievous ! And if I do not greatly mistake, she admired her 
part quite as little as I did, though she exerted all her power to 
make it endurable, — and there were passages, certainly, in which 
she succeeded in making one forget every thing but herself, her 
"oice, and her action. 

But to proceed. On this crucifix de cuivre poli, inscribed 
with the name of Tisbe, hangs all tlie little plot. Catarina Brag- 
adini, the-wife of the tyrant, and the most ill-used and meritori- 
ous of ladies, is introduced to us in the third scene of the second 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. _ 34T 

day (new style — acts are out of fashion), lamenting to her confi- 
dential femme de chambre the intolerable long absence of her 
lover. The maid listens, as in duty bound, with the most re- 
spectful sympathy, and then tells her that another of her waiting- 
maids for whom she had inquired was at prayers. Whereupon 
we have a morsel of naivete that is impayable. 

" Catarina. — Let her pray on — alas ! 'tis of no use for me to 
pray." 

This, I suspect, is what is called " the natural vein," in which 
consists the peculiar merit of this new style of writing. After 
this charming burst of natural feeling, the podesta's virtuous lady 
goes on with her lament. 

" Catarina. — It is five weeks — five eternal weeks since T be- 
held him. 1 am locked up, watched, imprisoned. I used to see 
him for an hour, now and then,' and that short, quickly passing 
hour was the only ' vent-hole' through which my life received a 
gleam of sunshine or a breath of air. Now all is dark and close 
. . . Oh, Rodolpho! Dafne, we have passed many happy hours 
together, he and I. Is it a crime to speak of him as 1 do ? Oh, 
no, it cannot be !" 

Now you must know, that this Signer Rodolpho plays the part 
of gallant to both these ladies, and, though intended by the author 
for another of his estimable personages, is certainly, by his own 
showing, as great a rascal as can well be imagined. He loves 
only the wife, and not the mistress of Angelo ; and though he 
permits her par complaisance to be his mistress too, he addresses 
her upon one occasion, when she is giving way to a fit of im- 
moderate fondness, with great sincerity. 

" Rodolpho. — Beware, Tisbe, mine is a fated race. There is 
a doom upon us, which never fails of its fulfilment from genera- 
tion to generation. We kill those whom we love." 

From this passage, and one before quoted, it should seem, I 
think, that notwithstanding all the innovations of M. Hugo, he has 
still a lingering reverence for the immutable power of destiny 
which overhangs the classic drama. How otherwise can he ex- 
plain these two mystic sentences ? — " Mine is a fated race. 
There is a doom upon us, which never fails of its fulfilment from 
generation to generation." And this other : " Hatred is in our 
blood. A Malipieri cannot exist without some object of his hatred." 

The only other character of importance is a very mysterious 
one called Homodei ; and I think I may best describe him in the 
words of the excellent burlesque which has already been brought 
out upon this " Angelo" at the Vaudeville. There they make one 
of the dramatis personse, when describing this very incomprehen- 
sible Homodei, say of him, — 

" He is the most inveterate sleeper of France and of Navarre." 



348 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

In effect, he far out-sleeps the dozing sentinels in the " Critic ;" 
for he goes on, scene after scene, sleeping apparently as sound as 
a top, till all on a sudden he starts up wide awake, and gives us 
to understand that he too is exceedingly in love with Madame la 
Podesta, but that he has been rejected. He therefore determines 
to do her as much mischief as possible, observing that " A Sbirre" 
(for such is his humble rank) " a Sbirre in love is but a worm — a 
Sbirre who seeks revenge becomes a giant." 

This great but rejected Sbirre, however, is not contented with 
avenging himself on Catarina for her "scorn, but is pushed, by 
his destiny, I presume, to set the whole company together by the 
ears. 

He first brings Rodolpho into the bedroom of Catarina, then 
brings the jealous Tisbe there to look at them, and finally con- 
trives that the tyrant himself should find out his wife's little in- 
nocent love-affair — for innocent she declares it is. 

Fortunately, during this unaccountable reunion in the chamber 
of madame, la Tisbe discovers that her mother the ballad-singer's 
crucifix is in the possession of her rival Catarina ; whereupon she 
not only decides upon resigning her claim upon the heart of 
Signer Rodolpho in her favour, but determines upon saving her 
life from the fury of her jealous husband, who has communicated 
to the Tisbe, as we have seen above, his intention of killing his 
wife, because " A Malipieri cannot exist without some object of 
his hatred." 

Fortunately, again, it happens that the Tisbe has communicated 
to her lover the tyrant, in a former conversation, the remarkable 
fact that another lover still had once upon a time made her a pres- 
ent of two vials — one black, the other white — one containing 
poison, the other a narcotic. After he has discovered Catarina's 
innocent weakness for Rodolpho, he informs the Tisbe that the 
time is come for him to kill his lady, and that he intends to do it 
by cutting her head off privately. The Tisbe tells him that this 
is a bad plan, and that poison would do much better. 

"Angela. — Yes! poison is the thing. But it must be quick 
poison ; and, though you will scarcely believe it, I have no such 
at hand. 

" La Tisbe. — But I have 'some. 

" Angela. — -Where ? 

" La Tisbe. — At my house. 

" Angela. — What poison ? 

" La Tisbe. — The Malispinian drug, you know ; the box that 
was sent me by the deacon of St. Mark's." 

After this satisfactory explanation, Angelo accepts her offer, 
and she trots away home and brings him the vial containing the 
narcotic. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 349 

The absurdity of the scene that takes place when Angelo and 
the Tisbe are endeavouring to persuade Catarina to consent to be 
killed is such, that nothing but transcribing the whole can give 
you an idea of it: but it is too long for this. Believe me, we 
were not the only part of the audience that laughed at this scene 
a gorge deployee. 

Angelo begins by asking if she is ready. 

" Catarina. — Ready ! for what ? 

" Angelo. — To die ! 

" Catarina. — To die ! No, I am not ready. I am not ready at 
all, good sir. 

" Angelo. — How long will it take you to prepare ? 

" Catarina. — Oh ! I don't know — a very long time." 

Angelo tells her she shall have an hour, and then leaves her 
alone : upon which she draws aside a curtain and discovers a 
block and an axe. Se is naturally exceedingly shocked at this 
spectacle ; her soliloquy is sublime ! 

" Catarina {replacing the curtain). — Behind me ! It is behind 
me. Ah ! it is clear enough that this is no dream—that all these 
events are real, /or there are the things behind the curtain.^'' 

Corneille ! Racine ! Voltaire ! — This is tragedy, — tragedy 
played on the stage of the Theatre Franqais — tragedy which it 
has been declared in the face of day shall " lift the ground from 
under you !" Such is the march of mind ! 

After this glorious soliloquy, her lover Rodolpho pays Catarina 
a visit — again in her bedroom, in her guarded palace, surrounded 
by spies and sentinels. How he gets there, it is impossible to 
guess : but in the burlesque at the Vaudeville they make this mat- 
ter much clearer; — for there these unaccountable entrees are 
managed at one time by the falling down of a wall ; at another, 
by the lover's rising through the floor like a ghost ; and at an- 
other, by his coming flying down on a wire from an opening in 
the ceiling like a Cupid. 

The lovers have a long talk ; but she does not tell him a word 
about the killing, for fear it should bring him into mischief, — 
though where he got in, it might be easy enough for her to get 
out. However, she says nothing about " les choses" behind the 
curtain, but gives him a kiss, and sends him away in high glee. 

No sooner does he disappear, than Angelo and the Tisbe enter, 
and a conversation ensues between the three on the manner of the 
doomed lady's death, that none but M, Victor Hugo could have 
written. He would represent nature, and he makes a high-born 
princess, pleading for her life to a sovereign who is her husband, 
speak thus : " Let us talk coolly. I tell you, you are a wretch — 
and then, being a liar yourself, you will not believe me. I tell you 
that I despise you heartily ; you married me only for my money." 



350 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Then she makes a speech to the Tisbe in the same exquisite 
tone of nature ; with now and then a phrase or expression which 
is quite beyond even the fun of the Vaudeville to travesty ; as, 
for instance — " I have always been faithful and virtuous — you 
will understand me, you — but I cannot tell that to my husband. 
Men are never willing to believe us, you know ; and yet we some- 
times tell them things that are very true. . . ." 

At last the tyrant gets out of patience. 

''''Angela. — This is too much. Catarina Bragadina, crime 
committed demands punishment — the open grave, a coffin — the 
wronged husband, a dead wife. You do but waste your words in 
talking as you do (showing the poison). Will you be kind 
enough to take it, miadam ? 

" Catarina. — No. 

" A.ngelo. — No ? Then I return to my first plan. Swords, 
swords ! — Troilo, fetch me a sword — but I will go myself." 

Now we all know that his first plan was not to stab her with 
one or more swords, but to cut her head off on a block — and that 
les chases are all hid ready for it behind the curtain. But this 
" J'y vais" is part of the machinery of the fable; for if the ty- 
rant did not go away, the Tisbe could find no opportunity of giv- 
ing her rival a hint that the poison was not so dangerous as she 
believed. So, when Angelo returns, the Tisbe tells him that 
" she submits to take the poison." 

Catarina drinks the potion, falls into a trance, and is buried. 
(Victor Hugo is always original, ihey say.) The Tisbe digs her 
up again, and lays her upon a bed in her own house, carefully- 
drawing the curtains round her. Then comes the great catastro- 
phe. The lover of the two ladies uses his privilege, and enters 
the Tisbe's apartment, determined to fulfil his destiny and murder 
her, because she loves him — as written in the book of fate — and 
also because she has poisoned his other and his favourite love 
Catarina. The Signer Rodolpho knows that she brought the 
vial, because one of the maids told him so : this is another in- 
stance of the ingenious and skilful machinery of the fable. Ro- 
dolpho tells the poor woman what he is come for; adding, " You 
have but a quarter of an hour, madam, to prepare for death." 

There is something in this which shows that M. Hugo, not- 
withstanding he has some odd decousu notions, is aware of the 
respect which ought to be paid to married ladies, beyond what is 
due to those who are not so. W^hen the podesta announced the 
same intention to his wife, he says — " You have an hour to live, 
madam." At the Vaudeville, however, they give another turn to 
this variation in the time allowed under circumstances so similar : 
they say — 

" An hour was allowed to Cat — 
But time has risen in price since that." 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



351 



The unfortunate Tisbe, on receiving this communication from 
her dear Rodolpho, exclaims—" What, will you kill me then ? Is 
this the first idea that occurs to you ?" 

Some farther conversation takes place between them. On one 
occasion he says— like a prince as he is—" Come— lell me a few 
lies !"— and then he assures her that he never cared a farthing for 
her, repeating very often, because, as he says, it is her sujjplice to 
hear it, that he never loved anybody but Catarina. During the 
whole scene she ceases not, however, to reiterate her passionate 
protestations of love to him, and at last the dialogue ends by 
Rodolpho's stabbing her to the heart. 

I never beheld any thing on the stage so utterly disgusting as 
this scene. That Mademoiselle Mars felt weighed down by the 
part, I am quite certain ; — it was like watching the painful efforts 
of a beautiful racer pushed beyond its power — distressed, yet 
showing its noble nature to the last. But even her exquisite 
acting made the matter worse : to hear the voice of Mars uttering 
expressions of love, while the ruffian she addresses grows more 
murderous as she grows more tender, produced an effect at once 
so hateful and so absurd, that one knew not whether to laugh or 
storm at it. But what was the most terrible of all was to see 
Mars exerting her matchless powers to draw forth tears, and then to 
look round the house and see that she was rewarded by a smile ! 

After Tisbe is stabbed, Catarina of course comes to life ; and 
the whole farce concludes by the dying Tisbe's telling the lovers 
that she had ordered horses for them; adding, tenderly, "She is 
released — (how ?) dead for the podesta, living for thee. Was not 
this an admirable scheme ?" Then Rodolpho says to Catarina, 
" By whom was thy life preserved ?" 

" La Tisbe {in reply). — By me, for thee !" 

M. Hugo, in a note at the end of the piece, apologizes for not 
concluding with these words — " By me, for thee," which he seems 
to think particularly effective : nevertheless, for some reason which 
he does not very clearly explain, he concludes thus : — 

" La Tisbe.— Madam, permit me to call him once more my 
Rodolpho. Farewell, my Rodolpho ! Now begone with speed. 
I die — Uve you — and take my blessing." 

It is impossible, in thus running through the piece, to give you 
any adequate idea of the loose, weak, trumpery style in which it 
is written. It really seems as if the author were determined to 
try how low he might go before the boys and grisettes who form 
the chorus of his admirers shall find out that he is quizzing them. 
One peculiarity in the plot of " this fine tragedy" is, that the hero 
Angelo never appears, nor is even alluded to, after the scene in 
which he commissions la Tisbe to administer the poison to Ma- 



352 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

dame. His sudden disappearance is thus commented upon at the 
Vaudeville. The tyrant there makes his appearance after it is 
all over, exclaiming — 

" I have something yet to say — Their notion seems to be 
To wind up their piece without the villain — that's me — 
But I'll soon let them know that I'm not such a flat 
As to stand, without a row, such dead gammon as that ; 
I'm the hero of the piece — my claim I'll not resign — 
And, dead or alive, the last word shall be mine." 

In the preface to this immortal performance there is this 
passage : — 

" In the existing state of all those profound questions which 
lie at the very root and foundation of society, it has long been the 
impression of the author of this drama, that utility and grandeur 
might be combined in the development, upon the stage, of an idea 
like this." 

And then follows what he calls his idea : but this preface must 
be read from beginning to end, if you wish to see what sort of 
stuff it is that humbug and impudence can induce the noisiest part 
of a population to pronounce " fine !" But yau must hear one 
sentence more of this precious preface, for fear " the work" may 
not fall into your hands. 

" The object of the drama, as the author of this work has 
endeavoured to construct it, should be to give a philosophy to the 
million — a form to ideas — to poetry muscles, blood, and life — to 
those who think, an honest, unbiased explanation — to thirsty souls, 
drink — to secret wounds, a healing balm — to each a counsel, and to 
all a law." (!!!!) 

He concludes thus : — , 

" In the present age, the horizon of the poetic art is much en- 
larged. Formerly the poet said ' the pubhc ;' now he says 
* the people.' " 

Is it possible to conceive affected sublimity and genuine non- 
sense carried farther than this ? Let us not, however, sit down 
with the belief that the capital of France is quite in the condition 
he describes ; — ^let us not receive it quite as gospel that the 
raptures, the sympathy of this " foule sympathique et 6clairee," 
that he talks of, in his preface to " Angelo," as coming nightly to 
the theatre to do him honour, exists — or at least that it exists 
beyond the very narrow limits of his own clique. The men of 
France do not sympathize with Victor Hugo, whatever the boys 
may do. He has made himself a name, it is true, — but it is not 
a good one ; and in forming an estimate of the present stale of 
literature in France, we shall greatly err if we assume as a fact 
that Hugo is an admired writer. 

I would not be unjustly severe on any one ; but here is a gen- 
tleman who in early life showed considerable ability ; — he pro- 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 353 

duced some light pieces in verse, which are said to be written 
with good moral feeling, and in a perfectly pure and correct 
literary taste. We have therefore a right to say that M. Hugo 
turned his talents thus against his fellow-creatures, not from 
ignorance — not from simple folly — but upon calculation. For is 
it possible to believe that any man who has once shown by his 
writings a good moral feeling and a correct taste, can expose to 
the public eye such pieces as " Lucrece Borgia," " Le Roi 
s'amuse," " Angelo," and the rest — in good faith, believing the 
doing so to be, as he says, " une tache sainte ?" Is this possible ? 
. . . and if it be not, what follows ? . . . . Why, that the author is 
making a job of corrupting human hearts and human intellects. 
He has found out that the mind of man, particularly in youth, 
eagerly seeks excitement of any kind : he knows that human 
beings will go to see their fellows hanged or guillotined by way 
of an amusement, and on this knowledge he speculates. 

But as the question relates to France, we have not hitherto treat- 
ed it fairly. I am persuaded that, had our stage no censorship, and 
were dramas such as those of Dumas and Victor Hugo to be pro- 
duced, they would fill the theatres at least as much as they do 
here. Their very absurdity — the horror — nay, even the disgust 
they inspire, is quite enough to produce this effect ; but it would 
be unwise to argue thence that such trash had become the prevail- 
ing taste of the people. 

Thai the speculation, as such, has been successful, I have no 
doubt. This play, for instance, has been very generally talked of, 
and many have gone to see it, not only on its own account, but in 
order to behold the novel spectacle of Mademoiselle Mars e?i lutte 
with an actress from La Porte St. Martin. As for Madame 
Dorval, I imagine she must be a very effective melodramatic per- 
former when seen in her proper place ; but, however it may have 
flattered her vanity, I do not think ii can have added to her fame 
to bring her into this dttngerous competition. As an actress, she 
is, I think, to Mademoiselle Mars much what Victor Hugo is to 
Racine — and perhaps we shall hear that she has " heaved the 
ground from under her." 

Among various stories floating about on the subject of the new 
play and its author, I heard one which came from a gentleman 
who has long been in habits of intimacy with M. Hugo. He went, 
as in duty bound, to see the tragedy, and had immediately after* 
ward to face his friend. The embarrassment of the situation re- 
quired to be met by presence of mind and a coup de main : he 
showed himself, however, equal to the exigency ; he spoke not a 
word, but rushing towards the author, threw his arms round him, 
and held him long in a close and silent embrace. 

Another pleasantry on the same subject reached me in the shape 

Z 



354 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

of four verses, which are certainly droll enough ; but I suspect that 
they must have been written in honour, not of " Angelo," but of 
some one of the tragedies in verse — " Le Roi s' amuse," perhaps, 
for they mimic the harmony of some of the lines to be found there 
admirably. 

" Ou, 6 Hugo ! hnchera-t-on ton nom ? 
Justice encor rendu, que ne t'a-t-on? 
Quand done au corps qu'academique on nomme, 
Grimperas-tu de roc en roc, rare homme ?" 

And now farewell to Victor Hugo ! I promise to trouble you 
with him no more ; but the consequence which has been given to 
his name in England has induced me to speak thus fully of the 
estimation in which I find him held in France. 

" Rare Homme !" 



LETTER LXV. 

Boulevard des Italiens — Tortoni's — Thunder-storm — Church of the Madeleine — Mrs, 
Butler's " Journal." 

All the world has been complaining of the tremendous heat of 
the weather here. The thermometer stands at .... I forget what, 
for the scale is not my scale ; but I know that the sun has been 
shining without mercy during the last week, and that all the world 
declare that they are baked. Of all the cities of the earth to be 
baked in, surely Paris is the best. I have been reading that beau- 
tiful story of George Sand's about nothing at all, called " Lavinia," 
and chose for my study the deepest shade of the Tuileries Garden, 
If we could but have sat there all day, we should have felt no in- 
convenience from the sun ; but, on the contrary, only have watched 
him from hour to hour caressing the flowers, and trying in vain to 
find entrance for one of his beams into the delightful covert we had 
chosen : but there were people to be seen, and engagements to be 
kept ; and so here we are at home again, looking forward to a large 
party for the evening ! 

The Boulevard, as we came along, was prettier than ever ;~ 
stands of delicious flowers tempting one at every step — a rose, 
and a bud, and two bits of mignionette, and a sprig of myrtle, for 
five sous ; but all arranged so elegantly, that the little bouquet 
was worth a dozen tied up less tastefully. I never saw so many 
sitters in a morning ; the people seemed as if they were reposing 
from necessity — as if they sat because they could walk no farther. 
As we passed Tortoni's we were amused by a group, consisting 
of a very pretty woman and a very pretty man, who were seated 



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PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 3S5 - 

on two chairs close together, and flirting apparently very much 
to their own satisfaction ; while the third figure in the group, a 
little Savoyard, who had .probably begun by asking charity, 
seemed spellbound, with his eyes fixed on the elegant pair as if 
studying a scene for the gate science, of which, as he carried a 
mandoline, I presume he was a disciple. We were equally enter- 
tained by the pertinacious staring of the httle minstrel, and the ut- 
ter indifference to it manifested by the objects of his admiration. 

A few steps farther, our eyes were again arrested by an exqui- 
site, who had taken off his hat, and was deliberately combing his 
coal-black curls as he walked. In a brother beau, I doubt not he 
would have condemned such a degree of laisser-aller ; but in 
himself, it only served to relever the beauty of his forehead and 
the general grace of his movements. I was glad that no fountain 
or limpid lake opened beneath his feet, — the fate of Narcissus 
would have been inevitable. 

Last night we had intended to make a farewell visit to the 
Feydeau, — Feydeau no longer, however, — to the Opera Comique, 
I should say. But fortunately we had not secured a box, and 
therefore enjoyed the privilege of changing our minds, — a privi- 
lege ever dear, but in such weather as this inestimable. Instead 
of going to the theatre, we remained at home till it began to grow 
dark and cool — cooler at least by some degrees, but still most 
heavily sultry. We then sallied forth to eat ices at Tortoni's. 
All Paris seemed to be assembled upon the Boulevard to breathe ; 
it was like a very crowded night at Vauxhall, and hundreds of 
chairs seemed to have sprung up from the ground to meet the 
exigencies of the moment, for double rows of sitters occupied 
each side of the pavement. 

Frenchwomen are so very lovely in their evening walking- 
dress, that I would rather see them thus than when full-dressed 
at parties. A drawing-room full of elegantly-dressed women, 
all looking prepared for a bal pare, is no unusual sight for Eng- 
lish eyes ; but truth obliges me to confess that it would be in 
vain at any imaginable evening promenade in London to look for 
such a spectacle as the Italian Boulevard showed us last night. 
It is the strangest thing in the world that it should be so — for it is 
certain that neither the bonnets, nor the pretty faces they shelter, 
are in any way inferior in England to any that can be seen else- 
where ; but Frenchwomen have more the habit and the knack of 
looking elegantly-dressed without being full-dressed. It is im- 
possible to enter into detail in order to explain this — nothing less 
skilful than a milliner could do this ; and I think that even the 
most skilful of the profession would not find it easy : I can only 
state the fact, that the general effect of an evening promenade in 
Paris is more elegant than it is in London. 

Z 2 



356 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

We were fortunate enough to secure the places of a large party 
that were leaving a window in the upper room at Tortoni's as we 
entered it : and here again is a scene as totally un-English as that 
of a restaurant in the Palais Royal. Both the rooms above, as well 
as those below, were quite full of gay company, each party sitting 
round their own little marble table, with the large carafe of ice — 
for so it may well be called, for it only melts as you want it — the 
very sight of which, even if you venture not to drain a draught 
from the slowly yielding mass, creates a feeling of delicious cold- 
ness. Then the incessant entrees of party-coloured pyramids, 
with their accompaniment of gaufres, — the brilliant light within, 
the humming crowd without, — the refreshing coolness of the del- 
icate regale, and the light gayety which all the world seem to 
share at this pleasant hour of perfect idleness, — all are incontest- 
ably French, and, more incontestably still, not English. 

While we were still at our window, amused by all within and all 
without, we were started by some sharp flashes of lightning which 
began to break through a heavy cloud of most portentous black- 
ness that I had been for some time admiring, as forming a beau- 
tiful contrast to the blaze of light on the Boulevard. No rain was 
as yet falling, and I proposed to my party a walk towards the 
Madeleine, which I thought would give us some fine effects of 
light and darkness on such a night as this. The proposal was 
eagerly accepted, and we wandered on till we left the crowd and 
the gas behind us. We walked to the end of the Rue Royale, 
and then turned round slowly and gradually to approach the 
church. The effect was infinitely finer than any thing I had an- 
ticipated : the moon was only a few days past the full ; and even 
when hid behind the heavy clouds that were gathering together as 
it seemed from all parts of the sky, gave light enough for us 
dimly, yet distinctly, to discern the vast and beautiful proportions 
of the magnificent portico. It looked like the pale spectre of a 
Grecian temple. With one accord we all paused at the point 
where it was most perfectly and most beautifully visible ; and I 
assure you, that with the heavy ominous mass of black clouds 
above and behind it — with the faint light of the "inconstant 
moon," now for a moment brightly visible, and now wholly hid 
behind a driving cloud, reflected from its columns, it was the 
most beautiful object of art that I ever looked at. 

It was some time before we could resolve to leave it, quite 
sure as we were that it never could be our chance to behold it in 
such perfection again ; and while we stayed, the storm advanced 
rapidly towards us, adding the distant rumbling of its angry voice 
to enhance the effect of the spectacle. Yet still we lingered; 
and were rewarded for our courage by seeing the whole of the 
vast edifice burst upon our sight in such a blaze of sudden 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 357 

brightness, that when it passed away, I thought for an instant 
that I was struck blind. Another flash followed — another and 
another. The spectacle was glorious ; but the danger of being 
drenched to the skin became every moment more imminent, and 
we hastily retreated to the Boulevard. As we emerged from the 
gloom of the Madeleine Boulevard to the glaring gaslight from 
the cafes which illuminated the Italian, it seemed as if we had 
got into another atmosphere and another world. No rain had as 
yet fallen ; and the crowd, thicker than ever, were still sitting and 
lounging about, apparently unconscious of the watery danger 
which threatened them. So great is the force of example, that, 
before we got to the end of the promenade, we seemed uncon- 
scious of it too, for we turned with the rest. But we were soon 
punished for our folly: the dark canopy burst asunder, and let 
down upon us as pelting a shower as ever drove feathers and 
flowers, and ribands and gauze, to every point of the compass in 
search of shelter. 

I have sometimes wondered at the short space of time it re- 
quired to clear a crowded theatre of its guests ; but the vanishing 
of the crowd from the Boulevard was more rapid still. What 
became of them all. Heaven knows ; but they seemed to melt 
and dissolve away as the rain fell upon them. We took shelter 
in the Passage de I'Opera; and after a few minutes the rain 
ceased, and we got safely home. 

In the course of our excursion we encountered an English 
friend, who returned home with us; and though it was eleven 
o'clock, he looked neither shocked nor surprised when I ordered 
tea, but even consented to stay and partake of it with us. Our 
tea-table gossip was concerning a book that all the world — all the 
English world, at least — had been long eagerly looking for, and 
which we had received two days before. Our English friend had 
made it his travelling-companion, and having just completed the 
perusal of it, could talk of nothing else. This book was Mrs. 
Butler's " Journal." Happily for the tranquilHty of our tea-table, 
we were all perfectly well agreed in opinion respecting it : for, 
by his account, parties for and against it have been running very 
strong among you. I confess I heard this with astonishment ; 
for it appears to me that all that can be said against the book lies 
so completely on the surface, that it must be equally visible to 
all the world, and that nobody can fail to perceive it. But these 
obvious defects once acknowledged — and they must be acknowl- 
ed by all, I should have thought that there was no possibility 
left for much difference of opinion, — I should have thought the 
genius of its author would then carry all before it, leaving no one 
sufficiently cold-blooded and reasonable to remember that it con- 
tained any faults at all. 



358 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

It is certainly possible that my familiarity with the scenes she 
describes may give her spirited sketches a charm and a value in 
my eyes that they may not have for those who know not their 
truth. But this is not all their merit : the glow of feeling, the 
warm eloquence, the poetic fervour with which she describes all 
that is beautiful, and gives praise to all that is good, must make 
its way to every heart, and inspire every imagination with power 
to appreciate the graphic skill of her descriptions, even though 
they may have no power to judge of their accuracy. 

I have been one among those who have deeply regretted 
the loss, the bankruptcy, which the stage has sustained in the 
tragic branch of its business by the secession of this lady : but 
her book, in my opinion, demonstrates such extraordinary powers 
of writing, that I am willing to flatter myself that we shall have 
gained eventually rather than lost by her having forsaken a pro- 
fession too fatiguing, too exhausting to the spirits, and neces- 
sarily occupying too much time, to permit her doing what now 
we may fairly hope she will do, — namely, devote herself to liter- 
ature. There are some passages of her hastily-written and too 
hastily-published journal, which evidently indicate that her mind 
was at work upon composition. She appears to judge herself 
and her own efforts so severely, that, when speaking of the 
scenes of an unpublished tragedy, she says " they are not bad," 
— which is, I think, the phrase she uses : I feel quite persuaded 
that they are admirable. Then again she says, " Began writing 
a novel ..." I would that she would finish it too ! — and as I 
hold it to be impossible that such a mind as hers can remain 
inactive, I 'comfort myself with the belief that we shall soon 
again receive some token of her English recollections handed to 
us across the Atlantic. That her next production will be less 
faulty than her last, none can doubt, because the blemishes are 
exactly of a nature to be found in the journal of a heedless young 
traveller, who having caught, in passing, a multitude of unseemly 
phrases, puts them forth in jest, unmindful — much too unmindful, 
certainly — of the risk she ran, that they might be fixed upon her 
as her own genuine, individual style of expression. But we have 
only to read those passages where she certainly is not jesting — 
where poetry, feeling, goodness, and piety glow in every line — to 
know what her language is wJien she is in earnest. On these 
occasions her power of expression is worthy of the thoughts of 
which it is the vehicle, — and I can give it no higher praise. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 359 



LETTER LXVI. 

A pleasant Party-^Discussion between an Englishman and a Frenchman — National Pe- 
culiarities. 

I TOLD you yesterday that, notwithstanding the tremendous heat 
of the weather, we were going to a large party in the evening. 
We courageously kept the engagement ; though, I assure you, I 
did it in trembling. But, to our equal surprise and satisfaction, 
the rooms of Mrs. M proved to be deliciously cool and agree- 
able. Her receiving-apartment consists of three rooms. The 
first was surrounded and decorated in all possible ways with a pro- 
fusion of the most beautiful flowers, intermixed with so many large 
glass vases for goldfish, that I am sure the air was much cooled 
by evaporation from the water they contained. This room was 
lighted wholly by a large lamp suspended from the ceiling,, which 
was enclosed in a sort of gauze globe, just sufficiently thick to pre- 
vent any painful glare of light, but not enough so to injure the 
beautiful effect always produced by the illumination of flowers. 
The large croisees were thrown open, with very slight muslin 
curtains over them ; and the whole effect of the room — its cool at- 
mosphere, its delicious fragrance, and its subdued light — was so 
enchanting, that it was not without difficulty we passed on to pay 

our compliments to Mrs. M , who was in a larger but much 

less fascinating apartment. 

There were many French persons present, but the majority of 
the company was English. Having looked about us a little, we 
retreated to the fishes and the myrtles ; and as there was a very 
handsome man singing buflfa songs in one of the other rooms, with 
a score of very handsome women looking at and listening to him, 
the multitude assembled there ; and we had the extreme felicity 
of finding fresh air and a sofa a notre disposition, with the addi- 
tional satisfaction of accepting or refusing ices every time the trays 
paraded before us. You will believe that we were not long left 
without companions, in a position so every way desirable : and in 
truth we soon had about us a select committee of superlatively 
agreeable people ; and there we sat till considerably past midnight, 
with a degree of enjoyment which rarely belongs to hours devoted 
to a very large party in very hot weather. 

And what did we talk about ? — I think it would be easier to 
enumerate the subjects we did not touch upon than those we did. 
Everybody seemed to think that it would be too fatiguing to run 



360 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

any theme far ; and so, rather in the style of idle, pampered lap- 
dogs, than of spirited pointers and setters, we amused ourselves by 
skittishly pursuing whatever was started, just as it pleased us, and 
then turned round and reposed till something else darted into view. 
The whole circle, consisting of seven persons, were English with 
the exception of one ; and that one was — he must excuse me, for 
I will not name him — that one was a most exceedingly clever and 
superlatively agreeable young Frenchman. 

As we had snarled and snapped a little here and there in some 
of our gambols after the various objects which had passed before 
us, this young man suggested the possibility of his being de trop 
in the coterie. " Are you not genes," said he, " by my being here 
to listen to all that you and yours may be disposed to say of us and 
ours ? . , . Shall I have the amiability to depart ?" 

A general and decided negative was put upon this proposition ; 
but one of the party moved an amendment. " Let us," said he, 
" agree to say every thing respecting France and the French with 
as much unreserve as if you were on the top of Notre Dame ; and 
do you, who have been for three months in England, treat us ex- 
actly in the same manner ; and see what we shall make of each 
other. We are all much too languid to suffer our patriotism to 
mount up to ' spirit-boil,' and so there is no danger whatever that 
we should quarrel." 

" I would accept the partie instantly," said the Frenchman, 
" were it not so unequal. But six to one ! ... is not this too hard ?" 

" No ! . . . not the least in the world, if we take it in the quiz- 
zing vein," replied the other ; " for it is well known that a French- 
man can out-quiz six Englishmen at any time." 

" Eh bien !" . . . said the complaisant Parisian, with a sigh, " I 
will do my best. Begin, ladies, if you please." 

" No ! no ! no !" exclaimed several female voices in a breath ; 
" we will have nothing to do with it ; fight it out between your- 
selves : we will be the judges, and award the honours of the field 
to him who hits thehardest." 

" This is worse and worse," cried our laughing enemy : " if 
this be the arrangement of the combat, the judgment, ^ coup sur, 
will be given against me. How can you expect such blind con- 
fidence from me ?" 

We protested against this attack upon our justice, promised to 
be as impartial as Jove, and desired the champions to enter the 
lists. 

" So then," said the Englishman, " I am to enact the part of 
St. George . . . and God defend the right !" 

" And I, that of St. Denis," replied the Frenchman, his right 
hand upon his breast, and his left gracefully sawing the air. 
"' Mon bras . . . non . . . 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 361 

" * Ma langue a ma patrie, 
Mon coeur a mon amie, 
Mourir gaiement pour la gloire et I'amour, 
C'est la devise d'un vaillant troubadour.' 

Allons ! . . . Now tell me, St. George, what say you in defence 
of the English mode of suffering ladies — the ladies of Britain — 
the most lovely ladies in the world, n'est-ce pas ? — to rise from 
table, and leave the room, and the gentlemen — alone — with down- 
cast eyes and timid step — without a single preux chevalier to offer 
them his protection or to bear them company on their melancholy 
way — banished, turned out — exiled from the banquet-board ! — I 
protest to you that I have suffered martyrdom when this has hap- 
pened, and I, for my sins, been present to witness it. Croyez- 
moi, I would have joyfully submitted to make my exit a quatre 
pattes, so I might but have followed them. Ah ! you know not 
what it is for a Frenchman to remain still, when forced to behold 
such a spectacle as this ! . . . Alas ! I felt as if I had disgraced 
myself for life ; but I was more than spellbound — I was promise- 
bound ; the friend who accompanied me to the party where I wit- 
nessed this horror had previously told me what I should have to 
endure — I did endure it — but I have not yet forgiven myself for 
participating in so outrageous a barbarism." 

" The gentlemen only remain to drink the fair ladies' health," 
said our St. George, very coolly ; " and I doubt not all ladies 
would tell you, did they speak sincerely, that they were heartily 
glad to get rid of you for half an hour or so. You have no idea, 
my good fellow, what an agreeable interlude this makes for them : 
they drink coffee, sprinkle their fans with esprit de rose, refresh their 
wit, repair their smiles, and are ready to set off again upon a fresh 
campaign, certain of fresh conquests. But what can St. Denis 
say in defence of a Frenchman who makes love to three women 
at once — as I positively declare I saw you do last night at the 
Opera ?" 

" You mistook the matter altogether, mon cher ; I did not make 
love — I only offered adoration : we are bound to adore the whole 
sex, and all the petits soins offered in public are but the ceremo- 
nies of this our national worship .... We never make love in 
public, my dear friend — ce n^ est pas dans nos mmurs. But will 
you explain to me un peu, why Englishmen indulge themselves 
in the very extraordinary habit of taking their wives to market 
with that vilaine corde au cou that it is so dreadful to mention, 
and there sell them for the mesquine somme de trois francs ? , . . 
Ah ! be very sure that were there a single Frenchman present at 
your terrible Smithfield when this happened, he would buy them 
all up, and give them their liberty at once." 

The St. George laughed — but then replied very gravely, that 
the custom was a very useful one, as it enabled an Englishman to 



362 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

get rid of a wife as soon as he found that she was not worth keep- 
ing. " But will you tell me," he continued, " how it is that you 
can be so inhuman as to take your innocent young daughters and 
sisters, and dispose of them as if they were Virginian slaves born 
on your estates, to the best bidder, without asking the charming 
little creatures themselves one single word concerning their sen- 
timents on the subject ?" 

" We are too careful of our young daughters and sisters," re- 
plied the champion of France, " not to provide them with a suita- 
ble alliance and a proper protector before they shall have run the 
risk of making a less prudent selection for themselves : but what 
can put it into the heads of English parents to send out whole 
shiploads of young English demoiselles — si belles qu'elles sont ! 
— to the other side of the earth, in order to provide them with 
husbands ?" 

Our knight paused for a moment before he answered, and I be- 
lieve we all shook for him ; but at length he replied very senten- 
tiously — 

" When nations spread their conquests to the other side of the 
earth, and send forth their generals and their judges to take and 
to hold possession for them, it is fitting that their distant honours 
should be shared by their fair countrywomen. But will you ex- 
plain to me why it is that the venerable grandmothers of France 
think it necessary to figure in a contre-danse — nay, even in a 
waltz, as long as they have strength left to prevent their falling on 
their noses ?" 

" ' Vive la bagatelle !' is the first lesson we learn in our nurses' 
arms — and Heaven forbid we should any of us live long enough 
to forget it !" answered the Frenchman. " But if the question be 
not too indiscreet, will you tell me, most glorious St. George, in 
what school of philosophy it was that Englishmen learned to seek 
satisfaction for their wounded honour in the receipt of a sum of 
money from the lovers of their wives ?" 

" Most puissant St. Denis," replied the knight of England, " I 
strongly recommend you not to touch upon any theme connected 
with the marriage state as it exists in England ; because I opine 
that it would take you a longer time to comprehend it than you 
may have leisure to give. It will not take you so long perhaps to 
inform me how it happens that so gay a people as the French, 
whose first lesson, as you say, is ' Vive la bagatelle !' should make 
so frequent a practice as they do of inviting either a friend or a 
mistress to enjoy a tete-a-tete over a pan of charcoal, with doors, 
windows, and vent-holes of all kinds carefully sealed, to prevent 
the least possible chance that either should survive ?" 

" It has arisen," replied the Frenchman, " from our great intima- 
cy with England — where the month of November is passed by 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 363 

one half of the population in hanging themselves, and by the other 
half in cutting them down. The charcoal system has been an at- 
tempt to improve upon your insular mode of proceeding ; and I be- 
lieve it is, on the whole, considered preferable. But may I ask 
you in what reign the law was passed which permits every Eng- 
lishman to beat his wife with a stick as large as his thumb ; and 
also whether the law has made any provision for the case of a 
man's having the gout in that member to such a degree as to swell 
it to twice its ordmary size ?" 

" It has been decided by a jury of physicians," said our able 
advocate, " that in all such cases of gout, the decrease of strength 
is in exact proportion to the increase of size in the pattern thumb, 
and therefore no especial law has passed our senate concerning its 
possible variation. As to the law itself, there is not a woman in 
England who w^ill not tell you that it is as laudable as it is ven- 
erable." 

" The women of England must be angels !" cried the champion 
of France, suddenly starting from his chair and clasping his hands 
together with energy — "angels! and nothing else, or" (looking 
round him) " they could never smile as you do now, while tyran- 
ny so terrible was discussed before them !" 

What the St. Denis thus politely called a smile was in effect a 
very hearty laugh — which really and bona fide seemed to puzzle 
him as to the feeling which gave rise to it. " I will tell you of 
what you all remind me at this moment," said he, reseating him- 
self: " Did you ever see or read ' Le Medecin malgre Lui V " 

We answered in the affirmative. 

" Eh bien ! ... do you remember a certain scene in which a 
certain good man enters a house whence have issued the cries of a 
woman grievously beaten by her husband ?" 

We all nodded assent. 

" Eh bien ! . . . and do you remember how it is that Martine, 
the beaten wife, receives the intercessor ? — ' I choose to be beaten, 
I do.' Voyez-vous, mesdames, I am that pitying individual — that 
kind-hearted M. Robert ; and you — you are every one of you most 
perfect Martines." 

" You are positively getting angry, Sir Champion," said one of 
the ladies : " and if that happens, we shall incontestably declare 
you vanquished." 

" Nay, I am vanquished — I yield — I throw up the partie — I see 
clearly that I know nothing about the matter. What I conceived 
to be national barbarisms, you evidently chng to as national privi- 
leges. Aliens ! . . . je me rends !" 

" We have not given any judgment, however," said I. " But 
perhaps you are more tired than beaten ? — you only want a little 
repose, and you will then be ready to start anew." 



364 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

" Non ! absolument non ! — but I will willingly change sides, 
and tell you how greatly I admire England. . . ." 

The conversation then started off in another direction, and 
ceased not till the number of parties who passed us in making their 
exit roused us at length to the necessity of leaving our flowery re- 
treat, and making ours also. 



LETTER LXVII. 

Chamber of Deputies — Punishment of Journalists — Institute for the Encouragement of 
Industry — Men of Genius. 

Of all the ladies in the world, the English, I believe, are the 
most anxious to enter a representative chamber. The reason for 
this is sufficiently obvious, — they are the only ones who are de- 
nied this privilege in their own country ; though I believe that 
they are in general rather disposed to consider this exclusion as a 
compliment, inasmuch as it evidently manifests something like a 
fear that their conversation might be found sufficiently attractive 
to draw the Solons and Lycurguses from their duty. 

But however well they may be disposed to submit to the priva- 
tion at home, it is a certain fact that Englishwomen dearly love 
to find themselves in a legislative assembly abroad. There cer- 
tainly is something more than commonly exciting in the interest 
inspired by seeing the moral strength of a great people collected 
together, and in the act of exerting their judgment and their power 
for the wellbeing and safety of millions. I suspect, however, 
that the sublimity of the spectacle would be considerably lessened 
by a too great familiarity with it ; and that if, instead of being oc- 
casionally hoisted outside a lantern to catch an uncertain sight 
and a broken sound of what was passing within the temple, we 
were in the constant habit of being ushered into so commodious a 
tribune as we occupied yesterday at the Chamber of Deputies, 
we might soon cease to experience the sort of reverence with 
which we looked down from thence upon the collected wisdom of 
France. 

Nothing can be more agreeable than the arrangement of this 
chamber for spectators. The galleries command the whole of it 
perfectly ; and the orator of the hour, if he can be heard by any 
one, cannot fail of being heard by those who occupy them. An- 
other peculiar advantage for strangers is, that the position of every 
member is so distinctly marked, that you have the satisfaction of 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 365 

knowing at a glance where to find the brawling republican, the 
melancholy legitimatist, and the active doctrinaire. The minis 
ters, too, are as much distinguished by their place in the Chamber 
as in the Red Book (or whatever may be the distinctive symbol 
of that important record here), and by giving a franc at the en- 
trance for a sort of map that they call a " Table figurative'^ of 
the Chamber, you know the name and constituency of every 
member present. 

This greatly increases the interest felt by a stranger. It is very 
agreeable to hear a man speak with fervour and eloquence, let 
him be who he may ; but it enhances the pleasure prodigiously 
to know at the same time who and what he is. If he be a 
minister, every word has either more or less weight according . . . 
to circumstances ; and if he be in opposition, one is also more au 
fait as to the positive value of his sentiments from being acquainted 
with the fact. 

The business before the house when we were there was stirring 
and interesting enough. It was on the subject of the fines and 
imprisonment to be imposed on those journalists who had outraged 
law and decency by their inflammatory publications respecting 
the trials going on at the Luxembourg. — General Bugeaud made 
an excellent speech upon the abuse of the freedom of the press ; 
a subject which certainly has given birth to more " cant," properly 
so called, than any other I know of. To so strange an extent has 
this been carried, that it really requires a considerable portion of 
moral courage to face the question fairly and honestly, and boldly 
to say, that this unrestricted power, which has for years beeu 
dwelt upon as the greatest blessing which can be accorded to the 
people, is in truth a most fearful evil. If this unrestricted power 
had been advocated only by demagogues and malecontents, the 
difficulties respecting the question would be slight indeed, com- 
pared to what they are at present ; but so many good men have 
pleaded for it, that it is only with the greatest caution, and the 
strongest conviction from the result of experience, that the law 
should interfere to restrain it. 

Nothing, in fact, is so plausible as the sophistry with which a 
young enthusiast for liberty seeks to show that the unrestrained 
exercise of intellect must not only be the birthright of every man, 
but that its exercise must also of necessity be beneficial to the 
whole human race. How easy is it to talk of the loss which the 
ever-accumulating mass of human knowledge must sustain from 
stopping by the strong hand of power the diffusion of speculation 
and experience ! How very easy is it to paint in odious colours 
the tyranny that would check the divine efforts of the immortal 
mind ! — And yet it is as clear as the bright light of heaven, that 
not all the sufferings which all the tyrants who ever cursed the 



366 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

earth ha've brought on man, can compare to those which the malign 
influence of an unchecked press is calculated to inflict upon him. 

The influence of the press is unquestionably the most awful 
engine that Providence has permitted the hand of man to wield. 
If used for good, it has the power of raising us higher in the 
intellectual scale than Plato ever dreamed ; but if employed for 
evil, the Prince of Darkness may throw down his arms before its 
unmeasured strength — he has no weapon like it. 

What are the temptations — the seductions of the world, which 
the zealous preacher deprecates, which the watchful parent dreads, 
compared to the corruption that may glide like an envenomed 
snake into the bosom of innocence from this insidious agency ? 
Where is the retreat that can be secured from it ? Where is the 
shelter that can baflle its assaults ? — Blasphemy, treason, and 
<lebauchery are licensed by the act of the legislature to do their 
worst upon the morals of every people among whom an unre- 
stricted press is established by law. 

Surely, but perhaps slowly, will this truth become visible to all 
men : and if society still hangs together at all, our grandchildren 
will probably enjoy the blessing without the curse of knowledge. 
The head of the serpent has been bruised, and therefore wa may 
hope for this, — but it is not yet. 

The discussions in the Chamber on this important subject, not 
only yesterday, but on several occasions since the question of 
these fines has been started, have been very animated and very 
interesting. Never were the right and the wrong in an argument 
more ably brought out than by some of the speeches on this 
business : and, on the other hand, never did effrontery go farther 
than in some of the defences which have been set up for the 
accused^ gerans of the journals in question. For instance, M. 
Raspail expresses a very grave astonishment that the Chamber 
of Peers, instead of objecting to the liberties which have been 
taken with them, do not rather return thanks for the useful lesson 
they have received. He states, too, in this same defence, as he is 
pleased to call it, that the conductors of the " Reformateur" have 
adopted a resolution to publish without restriction or alteration 
every article addressed to them by the accused parties or their 
defenders. This resolution, then, is to be pleaded as an excuse 
for whatever their columns may contain ! The concluding argu- 
ment of this defence is put in the form of a declaration, purporting 
that whoever dooms a fellow-creature to the horrors of imprison- 
ment ought to undergo the same punishment for the term of twenty 
years as an expiation of the crime. This is logical. 

There is a tone of vulgar, insolent defiance in all that is recorded 
of the manner and language adopted by the partisans of these 
Lyons prisoners, which gives what must, I think, be considered 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 367 

as very satisfactory proof that the party is not one to be greatly 
feared. After the vote had passed the Chamber of Peers for 
bringing to account the persons who subscribed the protest against 
their proceedings, two individuals who were not included in this 
vote of reprobation sent in a written petition that they might be so. 
What was the official answer to this piece of bravado, or whether 
it received any, I know not ; but I was told that some one present 
proposed that a reply should be returned as follows : — 

" The court regrets that the request cannot be granted, inas- 
much as the sentence has been already passed on those whom it 
concerned ; — but that, if the gentlemen wished it, they might 
perhaps contrive to get themselves included in the next endictment 
for treason." 

In the evening we went to the Institute for the encouragement 
of Industry. The meeting was held in the Salle St. Jean, at the 
Hotel de V ille. It was extremely full, and was altogether a 
display extremely interesting to a stranger. The speeches made 
by several of the members were in excellently good taste and 
extremely to the' purpose : I heard nothing at all approaching to 
that popular strain of eloquence which has prevailed of late so 
much in England upon all similar occasions, — nothing that looked 
like an attempt to bamboozle the respectable citizens of the 
metropolis into the belief that they were considered by wise men 
as belonging to the first class in society. 

The speeches were admirably calculated to excite ingenuity, 
emulation, and industry ; and I really believe that there was not a 
single word of nonsense spoken on the occasion. Several in- 
genious improvements and inventions were displayed, and the 
meeting was considerably egaye by two or three pieces exceed- 
ingly well played on a piano-forte of an improved construction. 

Many prizes were bestowed, and received with that sort of 
genuine pleasure which it is so agreeable to witness ; — but these 
were all for useful improvements in some branch of practical 
mechanics, and not, as I saw by the newspapers had recently been 
the case at a similar meeting in London, for essays ! One of the 
prize compositions was, as I perceived, " The best Essay on 
Education," from the pen of a young bell-hanger ! Next year, 
perhaps, the best essay on medicine may be produced by a young 
tinker, or a gold medal.be awarded to Betty the housemaid for a 
digest of the laws of the land. Our long-boasted common sense 
seems to have emigrated, and taken up its abode here ; for, spite 
of their recent revolution, you hear of no such stuff on this side 
the water ; — mechanics are mechanics still ; and though they some 
of them make themselves exceeding busy in politics, and discuss 



368 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

their different kings with much energy over a bottle of small wine, 
I have not yet heard of any of the " operative classes" throwing 
aside their files and their hammers to write essays. • 

This queer mixture of occupations reminds me of a conversa- 
tion I listened to the other day, upon the best manner in which a 
nation could recompense and encourage her literary men. One 
EngUsh gentleman, with no great enthusiasm of manner or ex- 
pression, quietly observed that he thought a moderate pension, 
sufficient to prevent the mind from being painfully driven from 
speculative to practical difficulties, would be the most fitting rec- 
ompense that the country could offer. 

" Is it possible you can really think so, my dear sir ?" replied 
another, who is an amateur, and a connoisseur, and a bel esprit, 
and an antiquary, and a fiddler, and a critic, and a poet. " I own 
my ideas on the subject are very different. Good God ! . . . . what 
a reward for a man of genius ! . . . . Why, what would you do for 
an old nurse ?" 

" 1 would give her a pension too," said the quiet gentleman. 

" I thought so !" retorted the man of taste." " And do you 
really feel no repugnance in placing the immortal efforts of genius 
on a par with rocking a few babies to sleep 1 — Fy on such phi- 
losophy !" 

" And what is the recompense which you would propose, sir ?" 
inquired the advocate for the pension. 

" I, sir ? — I would give the first offices and the first honours of 
the state to our men of genius : by so doing, a country ennobles 
itself in the face of the whole earth." 

" Yes, sir ... . But the first offices of the state are attended 
with a good deal of troublesome business, which might, I think, 
interfere with the intellectual labour you wish to encourage. I 
should really be very sorry to see Dr. Southey made secretary 
at war, — and yet he deserves something of his country too." 

" A man of genius, sir, deserves every thing of his country . . . 
It is not a paltry pension can pay him. He should be put for- 
ward in parliament ... he should be . . ." 

" I think, sir, he should be put at his ease : depend upon it, this 
would suit him better than being returned knight of the shire for 
any county in England." 

" Good Heaven, sir !" . . . resumed the enthusiast ; but he 
looked up, and his opponent was gone. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 369 



is LETTER LXVIII. 

Walk to the March^ des Innocens — Escape of a Canary-bird — A Street Orator — Bury- 
ing-place of the Victims of July. 

I MUST give you to-day an account of the adventures I have 
encountered in a course a pied to the Marche des Innocens. You 
must know that there is at one of the corners of this said Marche 
a shop sacred to the ladies, which debits all those unclassable 
articles that come under the comprehensive term of haberdashery, 
— a term, by-the-way, which was once interpreted to me by a 
celebrated etymologist of my acquaintance to signify " having to 
buy something." My magasin " k la Mere de Famille" in the 
Marche des Innocens fully deserves this description, for there are 
few female wants in which it fails to " avoir d'acheter," It was 
to this compendium of utilities that I was notably proceeding 
when I saw before me, exactly on a spot that I was obliged to 
pass, a throng of people that at the first glance I really thought 
was a prodigious mob ; but, at the second, I confess that they 
shrank and dwindled considerably. Nevertheless, it looked omi- 
nous ; and as I was alone, I felt a much stronger inclination to 
turn back than to proceed. I paused to decide which I should do ; 
and observing, as I did so, a very respectable-looking woman at 
the door of a shop very near the tumult, I ventured to address an 
inquiry to her respecting the cause of this unwonted assembling 
of the people in so peaceable a part of the town ; but, unfortu- 
nately, I used a phrase in the inquiry which brought upon me 
more evident quizzing than one often gets from the civil Parisians. 
My words, I think, were, — " Can you tell me, madam, what all 
these people are gathered together about ? Is there going to be 
any mouvement ?" 

This unfortunate word mouvement amused her infinitely ; for it 
is in fact the phrase used in speaking of all the real political hub- 
bubs that have taken place, and was certainly on this occasion as 
ridiculous as if some one, on seeing forty or fifty people collected 
together around a pickpocket or a broken-down carriage in Lon- 
don, were to gravely inquire of his neighbour if the crowd he saw 
indicated a revolution. 

" Mouvement !" she repeated with a very speaking smile ; 
" is the lady alarmed ? Mouvement ! . . . yes, madam, there is 
considerable of a movement, but it has nothing to do with a mouve- 
ment. It is nothing more than the canary-bird of the milliner 

Aa 



370 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

over the way that has escaped from its cage. I can assure you 
that it is so, for I saw the bird fly away, with my own eyes." 

" Is that all ?" said I. " Is it possible that the escape of a bird 
can have brought all these people together ?" 

" Nothing more, I assure you. But see — the police-men are 
coming up to see what is the matter — there, they have arrested 
somebody, I believe. How well those fellows know all the 
rogues !" 

This last hint quite decided my return, and I thanked the 
obliging bonnetiere for her communications. 

*' Good morning, my lady," she replied, with a very mystify- 
ing sort of smile ; " good morning ; make yourself easy — there's 
no danger of any mouvementr 

I am quite sure she was the wife of a doctrinaire ; for nothing 
affronts the whole party, from the highest to the lowest, so much 
as to breathe a hint that you think it possible any riot should 
arise to disturb their dear tranquillity. On this occasion, how- 
ever, I really had no such matter in my thoughts, and sinned 
only by a blundering phrase. 

I returned home to look for an escort; and having enlisted 
one, set forth again for the Marche des Innocens, which I reached 
this time without any other adventure than being splashed twice, 
and nearly run over thrice. Having made my purchases, I was 
setting my face towards home again, when my companion pro- 
posed that we should go across the market to look at the monu- 
ments raised over some half-dozen or half-score of revolutionary 
heroes, who fell and were buried on a spot at no great distance 
from the fountain, on the 29th July, 1830. 

When we reached the little enclosure, we remarked a many 
who looked, I thought, very much like a printer's devil, leaning 
against the rail, and haranguing a girl who stood near him with 
her eyes wide open as if she were watching for, as well as listen- 
ing to, every word which should drop from his oracular lips. A 
little boy, almost equally attentive to his eloquence, occupied the 
space between them, and completed the group. 

I felt a strong inclination to hear what he was saying, and 
stationed myself doucement, doucement at a short distance, look- 
ing, I believe, almost as respectfully attentive as the girl for 
whose particular advantage he was evidently holding forth. He 
perceived our approach, but appeared nowise annoyed by it ; on 
the contrary, it seemed to me that he was pleased to have an 
increased audience, for he evidently threw more energy into his 
manner, waved his right hand with more dignity, and raised his 
voice higher. 

I will not attempt to give you his discourse verbatim, for some 
of his phrases were so extraordinary, or at least so new to me. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 371 

that I cannot recall them ; but the general purport of it made an 
impression both on me and my companion, from its containing so 
completely the very soul and essence of the party to which he 
evidently belonged. The theme was the cruel treatment of the 
amiable, patriotic, and noble-minded prisoners at the Luxem- 
bourg. " What did we fight for ?" . . . said he, pointing to the 
tombs within the enclosure : " was it not to make France and 
Frenchmen free ? . . . . And do they call it freedom to be locked 
up in a prison .... actually locked up ? . . . What ! can a slave 
be worse than that? Slaves have got chains on . . . qu'est-ce 
que cela fait ? .... If a man is locked up, he cannot go farther 
than if he was chained — c'est clair .... it is all one, and French- 
men are again slaves This is what we have got by our 

revolution . . . ." 

The girl, who continued to stand looking at him with undevia- 
ting attention, and, as I presume, with proportionate admiration, 
turned every now and then a glance our way, to see what effect 
it produced on us. My attention, at least, was quite as much 
riveted on the speaker as her own ; and I would willingly have 
remained listening to his reasons, which were quite as " plentiful 
as blackberries," why no Frenchman in the world, let him do 
what he would (except, I suppose, when they obey their king, 
like the unfortunate victims of popular tyranny at Ham), should 
ever be restricted in his freedom — because freedom was what 
they fought for — and being in prison was not being free — and so 
on round and round in his logical circle. But as his vehemence 
increased, so did his audience ; and as I did not choose to be 
present at a second " mouvement" on the same day, or at any 
rate of running the risk of again seeing the police approaching a 
throng of which I made one, I walked off. The last words I 
heard from him, as he pointed piteously to the tombs, were — 
" Via les restes de notre revolution de Juillet !" In truth, this 
fellow talked treason so glibly, that I felt very glad to get quietly 
away; but I was also glad to have fallen in with such an admi- 
rable display of popular eloquence, with so little trouble or incon- 
venience. 

We lingered long enough within reach of the tombs, while 
listening to this man, for me to read and note the inscription on 
one of them. The name and description of the " victime de 
Juillet" who lay beneath it was, " Hapel, du departement de la 
Sarthe, tue le 29 Juillet, 1830." 

Nothing can be more trumpery than the appearance of this 
burying-place of " the immortals," with its flags and its foppery 
of spears and halberds. There is another similar to it in the 
most eastern court of the Louvre, and others, I believe, in several 
other places. If it be deemed advisable to leave memorials upon 

Aa 2 



372 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

these unconsecrated graves, it would be in better taste to make 
them of such dignity as might excuse their erection in these con- 
spicuous situations ; but at present the effect is decidedly ludi- 
crous. If the bodies of those who fell are really deposited within 
these fantastical enclosures, it would show much more reverence 
for them and their cause if they were all to receive Christian 
burial at Pere La Chaise, with all such honours, due or undue, 
as might suit the feelings of the time ; and over them it would 
be well to record, as a matter of historical interest, the time and 
manner of their death. This would look like the result of nation- 
al feeling, and have something respectable in it ; which certainly 
cannot be said of the faded flaunting flags and tassels which now 
wave over them, so much in the style of decorations in the barn 
of a strolling company of comedians. 

As we left the spot, my attention was directed to the Rue de la 
Feronnerie, which is close to the Marche des Innocens, and in 
which street Henri Quatre lost his life by the assassin hand of Ra- 
vaillac. It struck me, as we talked of this event, and of the many 
others to which the streets of this beautiful but turbulent capital 
have been witness, that a most interesting — and, if accompanied 
by good architectural engravings, a most beautiful — work might 
be compiled on the same plan, or at least following the same idea, 
as Mr. Leigh Hunt has taken in his work on the interesting local- 
ities of London. A history of the streets of Paris might contain a 
mixture of tragedy, comedy, and poetry — of history, biography, and 
romance, that might furnish volumes of " entertaining knowledge," 
which, being the favourite genre amid the swelling mass of modern 
literature, could hardly fail of meeting with success. 

How pleasantly might an easy writer go on anecdotizing through 
century after century, as widely and wildly as he pleased, and yet 
sufficiently tied together to come legitimately under one common 
title ; and how wide a grasp of history might one little spot some- 
times contain ! Where some scattered traces of the stones may 
still be seen that were to have been reared into a palace for the 
King of Rome, once stood the convent of the " Visitation de Sainte 
Marie," founded by Henriette the beautiful and the good, after the 
death of her martyred husband, our first Charles ; within whose 
church were enshrined her heart, and those of her daughter, and 
of James the Second of England. Where English nuns took ref- 
uge from English Protestantism, is now — most truly English still 
— a manufactory for spinning cotton. Where stood the most holy 
altar of Le Verbe Incarne, now stands a caserne. In short, it is 
almost impossible to take a single step in Paris without discover- 
ing, if one does but take the trouble of inquiring a little, some tra- 
dition attached to it that might contribute information to such a 
work. 




■OXL 



° J/:-, 



rper X: jjrotliers 
1836. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 373 

I have often thought that a history of the convents of Paris du- 
ring that year of barbarous profanation, 1790, would make, if the 
materials were well collected, one of the most interesting books in 
the world. The number of nuns returned upon the world from 
the convents of that city alone amounted to many thousands ; and 
when one thinks of all the varieties of feeling which this act must 
have occasioned, differing probably from the brightest joy for re- 
covered hope and life, to the deepest desolation of wretched help- 
lessness, it seems extraordinary that so little of its history has 
reached us. 

Paris is delightful enough, as every one knows, to all who look 
at it, even with the superficial glance that seeks no farther than its 
external aspect at the present moment ; but it would, I imagine, 
be interesting beyond all other cities of the modern world, if care- 
fully travelled through with a consummate antiquarian, who had 
given enough learned attention to the subject to enable him to do 
justice to it. There is something so piquant in the contrasts of- 
fered by some localities between their present and their past con- 
ditions — such records furnished at every corner of the enormous 
greatness of the human animal, and his most chetif want of all 
stability — traces of such wit and such weakness, such piety and 
profanation, such bland and soft politeness, and such ferocious bar- 
barism — that I do not believe any other page of human nature 
could furnish the like. 

I am sure, at least, that no British records could furnish pictures 
of native manners and native acts so dissimilar at different times 
from each other as may be found to have existed here. The 
most striking contrast that we can show is between the effects 
of Oliver Cromwell's rule and that of Charles the Second ; but 
this was unity and concord compared to the changes in character 
which have repeatedly taken place in France. That this contrast 
with us was, speaking of the general mass of the population, little 
more than the mannerism arising from adopting the style of " the 
court" for the time being, is proved by the wondrously easy transi- 
tion from one tone to the other which followed the restoration. 
This was chiefly the affair of courtiers, or of public men, who as 
necessarily put on the manners of their master as a domestic ser- 
vant does a livery ; but Englishmen were still in all essentials the 
same. Not so the French, when they threw themselves headlong, 
from one extremity of the country to the other, into all the despe- 
rate religious wildness which marks the history of the Ligue ; not 
so the French, when from the worship of their monarchs they sud- 
denly turned as by one accord, and flew at their throats like blood- 
hounds. Were they then the same people ? — did they testify any 
single trait of moral affinity to what the world thought to be theic 
national character one short year before ? Then again look at them 



374 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

under Napoleon, and look at them under Louis Philippe. It is a 
great, a powerful, a magnificent people, let them put on what out- 
ward seeming they will ; but I doubt if there be any nation in the 
world that would so completely throw out a theorist who wished 
to establish the doctrine of distinct races as the French. 

You will think that I have made a very circuitous ramble 
from the Marche des Innocens ; but I have only given you 
the results of the family speculation we fell into after returning 
thence, which arose, I believe, from my narrating how I had 
passed from the tombeaux of the victimes de Juillet to the place 
where Henri Quatre received his death. This set us to meditate 
on the different political objects of the slain ; and w^e all agreed 
that it was a much easier task to define those of the king than 
those of the subject. There is every reason in the world to 
believe that the royal Henri wished the happiness and prosperity 
of France ; but the guessing with any appearance of correctness 
what might be the especial wish and desire of the Sieur Hapel du 
departement de la Sarthe, is a matter infinitely more difficult to 
decide. 



LETTER LXIX. 

A Philosophical Spectator — Collection of Baron Sylvestre — Hotel des Monnaies — ^Mu- 

see d'Artillerie. 

We have been indebted to M. J *****, the same obliging 
and amiable friend of whom I have before spoken, for one or two 
moje very delightful mornings. We saw many things, and we 
talked of many more. 

M. J ***** is inexhaustible in piquant and original observa- 
tion, and possesses such extensive knowledge on all those sub- 
jects which are the most intimately connected with the internal 
history of France during the last eventful forty years, as to make 
every word he utters not only interesting, but really precious. 
When I converse with him, I feel that I have opened a rich vein 
of information, which, if I had but time and opportunity to derive 
from it all it could give, would positively leave me ignorant of 
nothing I wish to know respecting the country. 

The memoirs of such a man as M. J * * * * * would be a 
work of no common value. The military history of the period is 
as familiar to all the world as the marches of Alexander or the 
conquests of Cesar ; the political history of the country during 
the same interval is equally well known; its literary history 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 375 

speaks for itself: but such memoirs as I am sure M. J * * * * * 
could write, would furnish a picture that is yet wanting. 

We are not without full and minute details of all the great 
events which have made France the principal object for all 
Europe to stare at for the last half century; but these details 
have uniformly proceeded from individuals who have either been, 
personally engaged in or nearly connected with these stirring 
events ; and they are accordingly all tinctured more or less with 
such strong party feeling, as to give no very impartial colouring 
to every circumstance they recount. The inevitable consequence 
of this is, that, with all our extensive reading on the subject, we 
are still far from having a correct impression of the internal and 
domestic state of the country throughout this period. 

We know a great deal about old nobles who have laid down 
their titles and become men of the people, and about new nobles 
who have laid down their muskets to become men of the court, — 
of ministers, ambassadors, and princes who have dropped out of 
sight, and of parvenus of all sorts who have started into it ; but, 
meanwhile, what do we know of the mass — not of the people — 
of them also we know quite enough, — but of the gentlemen, who, 
as each successive change came round, felt called upon by no 
especial duty to quit their honourable and peaceable professions 
in order to resist or advance them ? Yet of these it is certain 
there must be hundreds who, on the old principle that "lookers- 
on see most of the game," are more capable of telling us what 
effect these momentous changes really produced than any of 
those who helped to cause them. 

M. J ***** is one of these ; and I could not but remark, while 
listening to him, how completely the tone in which he spoke of 
all the public events he had beheld was that of a philosophical 
spectator. He seemed disposed, beyond any Frenchman I have 
yet conversed with, to give to each epoch its just character, and 
to each individual his just value : I never before had the good for- 
tune to hear any citizen of the Great Nation converse freely, 
calmly, reasonably, without prejudice or partiality, of that most 
marvellous individual Napoleon. 

It is not necessary to attempt recalling the precise expressions 
used respecting him ; for the general impression left on my mind 
is much more deeply engraven than the language which conveyed 
it : besides, it is possible that my inferences may have been more 
conclusive and distinct than I had any right to make them, and 
yet so sincerely the result of the casual observations scattered 
here and there in a conversation that was any thing but suivie, 
that, were I to attempt to repeat the words which conveyed them, 
I might be betrayed into involuntary and unconscious exaggera- 
tion. 



376 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

The impression, then, which I received is, that he was a most 
magnificent tyrant. His projects seem to have been conceived 
with the vastness and energy of a moral giant, even when they 
related to the internal regulation only of the vast empire he had 
seized upon ; but the mode in which he brought them into action 
was uniformly marked by barefaced, unshrinking, uncompromising 
tyranny. The famous Ordonnances of Charles Dix were no more 
to be compared, as an act of arbitrary power, to the daily deeds 
of Napoleon, than the action of a dainty pair of golden sugar- 
tongs to that of the firmest vice that ever Vulcan forged. But 
this enormous, this tremendous power, was never wantonly em- 
ployed ; and the country when under his dominion had more fre- 
quent cause to exclaim in triumph — 

" 'Tis excellent to have a giant's strength," 

than to add in suffering, 

" But tyrannous to use it like a giant." 

It was the conviction of this — the firm belief that the glory of 
France was the object of her autocrat, which consecrated and 
confirmed his power while she bent her proud neck to his yoke, 
and which has since and will for ever make his name sound in the 
ears of her children like a paean to their own glory. What is there 
which men, and most especially Frenchmen, will not suffer and 
endure to hear that note ? Had Napoleon been granted to them 
in all his splendour as their emperor for ever, they would for ever 
have remained his willing slaves. 

When, however, he was lost to them, there is every reason to 
believe that France would gladly have knit together the severed 
thread of her ancient glory with her hopes of future greatness, 
had the act by which it was to be achieved been her own : but it 
was the hand of an enemy that did it — the hand of a triumphant 
enemy ; and though a host of powerful, valiant, noble, and loyal- 
hearted Frenchmen welcomed the son of St. Louis to his lawful 
throne with as deep and sincere fidelity as ever warmed the heart 
of man, there was still a national feeling of wounded pride which 
gnawed the hearts of the multitude, and even in the brightest days 
of the Restoration prevented their rightful king from being in 
their eyes what he would have been had they purchased his re- 
turn by the act of drawing their swords instead of laying them 
down. It was a greatness that was thrust upon them — and for 
that reason, and I truly beheve for that reason only, it was dis- 
tasteful. 

In days of old, if it happened by accident that a king was un- 
popular, it mattered very little to the general prosperity of his 
country, and still less to the general peace of Europe. Even if 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 377 

hatred went so far as to raise the hand of an assassin against hinti, 
the tranquillity of the rest of the human race was but little af- 
fected thereby. But in these times the effect is very diiferent : 
disaffection has been taught to display itself in acts that may at 
one stroke overthrow the prosperity of millions at home, and en- 
danger the precious blessings of peace abroad ; and it becomes 
therefore a matter of importance to the whole of Europe, that 
every throne established within her limits should be sustained not 
only by its own subjects, but by a system of mutual support that 
may ensure peace and security to all. To do this where a king is 
rejected by the majority of the people, is, to say the least of it, a 
very difficult task ; and it will probably be found that to support 
power firmly and legally established, will contribute more to the 
success of this system of mutual support for the preservation of 
universal tranquillity, than any crusade that could be undertaken 
in any part of the world for the purpose of substituting an exiled 
dynasty for a reigning one. 

This is the doct?'ine to which I have now listened so long and 
so often, that I have ceased all attempts to refute it. I have, 
however, while stating it, been led to wander a little from those 
reminiscences respecting fair France which I found so interesting, 
coming forth as they did, as if by accident, from the rich store- 
house of my agreeable friend's memory : but I believe it would 
be quite in vain were I to go back to the point at which I deviated, 
for I could do justice neither to the matter nor the manner of the 
conversations which afforded me so much pleasure ; — I believe, 
therefore, that I had better spare you any more pohtics just at 
present, and tell you something of several things which we had 
the pleasure of seeing with him. 

One of these was Baron Gros's magnificent sketch, if I must 
so call a very finished painting, of his fine picture of the Plague 
of Jaffa. A week or two before I had seen the picture itself at 
the Luxembourg, and felt persuaded then that it was by far the 
finest work of the master ; but this first development of his idea 
is certainly finer still. It is a beautiful composition, and there are 
groups in it that would not lower the reputation of Michael Angelo. 
The severe simplicity of the emperor's figure and position is in 
the very purest taste. 

This very admirable work was, when we saw it, in the posses- 
sion of the Baron de Sylvestre, whose collection, without having 
the dignity of a gallery, has some beautiful things in it. Our 
visit to it and its owner was one of great interest to me. I have 
seldom seen any one with a more genuine and enthusiastic love 
of art. He has one cabinet, — it is, I believe, his own bedroom, 
— which almost from floor to ceiling is hung with Ihtle gems, 
so closely set together as to pEoduce at first sight the effect of 



378 . PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

almost inextricable confusion ; — portraits, landscapes, and historic 
sketches — pencil, crayon, water-colour, and oil — with frames and 
without frames, all blended together in utter defiance of all sym- 
metry or order whatever. But it was a rich confusion, and many 
a collector would have rejoiced at receiving permission to seize 
upon a chance handful of the heterogeneous mass of which it was 
composed. 

Curious, well-authenticated, original drawings of the great 
masters, though reduced to a mere rag, have always great interest 
in my eyes, — and the Baron de Sylvestre has many such : but it 
was his own air of comfortable domestic intimacy with every 
scrap, however small, on the lofty and thickly-studded walls of 
this room, which delighted me ; — it reminded me of Denon, who 
many years ago showed me his large and very miscellaneous col- 
lection with equal enthusiasm. I dearly love to meet with people 
who are really and truly in earnest. 

On the same morning that we made this agreeable acquaintance, 
we passed an hour or two at the Hotel des Monnaies, which is 
situated on the Quai Conti, and, I believe, on the exact spot 
where the old Hotel de Conti formerly stood. The building, like 
all the public establishments in France, is very magnificent, and 
we amused ourselves very agreeably with our intelligent and 
amiable cicisbeo in examining an immense collection of coins and 
medals. This collection was formerly placed at the Louvre, but 
transferred to this hotel as soon as its erection was completed. 
The medals, as usual in all such examinations, occupied the greater 
part of our time and attention. It is quite a gallery of portraits, 
and many of them of the highest historical interest : but perhaps 
our amusement was as much derived from observing how many- 
ignoble heads, which had no more business there than so many 
turnips, had found place nevertheless, by the outrageous vanity 
either of themselves or their friends, amid kings, heroes, poets, 
and philosophers. It is perfectly astonishing to see how many 
such as these have sought a bronze or brazen immortality at the 
Hotel des Monnaies : every medal struck in France has an im- 
pression preserved here, and it is probably the knowledge of this 
fact which has tempted these little people so preposterously to 
distinguish themselves. 

On another occasion we went with the same agreeable escort 
to visit the national museum of ancient armour. This Muses 
d'Artillerie is not quite so splendid a spectacle as the same species 
of exhibition at the Tower; but there are a great many beautiful 
things there too. Some exquisitely-finished muskets and arque- 
buses of considerable antiquity, and splendid with a profusion of 
inlaid ivory, mother-of-pearl, and precious stones, are well ar- 
ranged for exhibition, as are likewise some complete suits of 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 379 

armour of various dates ; — among them is one worn in battle by 
the unfortunate Maid of Orleans. 

But this is not only a curious antiquarian exhibition, — it is in 
truth a national institution, wherein military men may study the 
art of war from almost its first barbarous simplicity up to its 
present terrible perfection. The models of all manner of slaugh- 
tering instruments are beautifully executed, and must be of great 
interest to all who wish to study the theory of that science which 
may be proved " par raison demonstrative," as Moli^re observes, 
to consist wholly " dans I'art de donner et ne pas recevoir." But 
I believe the object which most amused me in the exhibition was 
a written notice, repeated at intervals along all the racks on which 
were placed the more modern and ordinary muskets, to this 
effect : — 

" Missing, from the second row of this rack of arms, about 
twenty- four carbines, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, like 
those of the fiirst row. All that are seen here were taken away 
and employed in the three days of July, and afterward safely re- 
turned. Persons who have those which are wanting, are requested 
to bring them back." 

There is such a superlative degree of bonhomie in the belief 
that because all the ordinary muskets which were seized upon by 
the July patriots were returned, those also adorned with " incrus- 
tations d'ivoire et de nacre" would be returned too, that it was 
quite impossible to restrain a smile at it. Such unwearied con- 
fidence and hope deserve a better reward than, 1 fear, they will 
meet: the "incrustations d'ivoire et de nacre" are, I doubt not, in 
very safe keeping, and have been converted, by the patriot hands 
that seized them, to other purposes, as dear to the hearts they 
belonged to as that of firing at the Royal Guard over a barricade. 
Our doctrinaire friend himself confessed that he thought it was 
time these naive notices should be removed. 

It was, I think, in the course of this excursion that our friend 
gave me an anecdote which I think is curious and characteristic. 
Upon some occasion which led to a private interview between 
Charles Dix and himself, some desultory conversation followed 
the discussion of the business which led to the audience. The 
name of Malesherbes, the intrepid defender of Louis Seize, was 
mentioned by our friend. The monarch frowned. 

" Sire !" — was uttered almost involuntarily. 

" II nous a fait beaucoup de mal," said the king, in reply to the 
exclamation — adding, with emphasis, " Mais il I'a paye par sa 
tete !" 



380 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 



LETTER LXX. 

Concert in the Champs Elysees — Horticultural Exhibition — Forced Flowers — Republi- 
can Hats — Carlist Hats — Juste-Milieu Hats — Popular Funeral. 

The advancing season begins to render the atmosphere of the 
theatres insupportable, and even a crowded soiree is not so agree- 
able as it has been ; so last night we sought our amusement in 
listening to the concert "en plein air" in the Champs Elysees. 
I hear that you too have been enjoying this new dehght of al- 
fresco music in London. France and England are exceedingly 
like the interlocutors of an eclogue, where first one puts forth all 
his power and poetry to enchant the world, and then the other 
"takes up the wondrous tale," and does his utmost to exceed and 
excel, and so go on, each straining every nerve to outdo the other. 

Thus it is with the two great rivals who perform their various 
feats a I'envi Fun de I'autre on the opposite sides of the Channel. 
No sooner does one burst out with some new and bright idea, 
which, like a newly-kindled torch, makes for awhile all other lights 
look dim, than the other catches it, finds out some ingenious way 
of making it his own, and then grows as proud and as fond of it 
as if it had been truly the offspring of his own brain. But in this 
strife and this stealing neither party has any right to reproach the 
other, for the exchange is very nearly at par between them. 

A very few years ago, half a dozen scraping fiddlers, and now 
and then a screaming " sirene ambulante," furnished all the music 
of the Champs Elysees ; but now there is the prettiest " salon de 
concert en plein air" imaginable. 

By-the-way, I confess that this phrase, " salon de concert en 
plein air," has something rather paradoxical in it : nevertheless, it 
is perfectly correct ; the concerts of the Champs Elysees are de- 
cidedly en plein air, and yet they are enclosed within what may 
very fairly be called a salon. The effect of this fanciful arrange- 
ment is really very pretty ; and if you have managed your echo 
of this agreeable fantasia as skilfully, an idle London summer 
evening has gained much. Shall I tell you how it has been done 

in Paris ? 

In the lower part of the Champs Elysees, a round space is en- 
closed by a low rail. Within this, to the extent of about fifteen 
or twenty feet, are ranged sundry circular rows of chairs that are 
sheltered by a light awning. Within these, a troop of graceful 
nymphs, formed of white plaster, but which a spectator, if he be 
amiably disposed, may take for white marble, stand each one with 
a lamp upon her head, forming altogether a delicate halo, which. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 381 

as daylight fades, throws a faint but sufficient degree of illumina- 
tion upon the company. In the centre of the enclosure rises a 
stage, covered by a tent-like canopy, and brilliant as lamps can 
make it. Here the band is stationed, which is sufficiently good 
and sufficiently full to produce a very delightful effect : it must 
indeed be very villanous music which, listened to while the cool 
breeze of a summer's evening refreshes the spirit, should not be 
agreeable. The whole space between the exterior awning and 
the centre pavilion appropriated to the band is filled with chairs, 
which, though so very literally en plein air, were all filled with 
company, and the effect of the whole thing was quite delightful. 

The price of entrance to all this prettiness is one franc ! This, 
by-the-by, is a part of the arrangement which I suspect is not 
rivalled in England. Neither will you, I believe, soon learn the 
easy sort of unpremeditated tone in which it is resorted to. It is 
ten to one, I think, that no one — no ladies at least — will ever go 
to your al-fresco concert without arranging a party beforehand ; 
and there will be a question of whether it shall be before tea or 
after tea, in a carriage or on foot, &c, &c. But here it is enjoyed 
in the very spirit of sans souci : — you take your evening ramble 
— the lamps sparkle in the distance, or the sound of the instru- 
ments reaches your ears, and this is all the preparation required. 
And then, as you may always be perfectly sure that everybody 
you know in Paris is occupied as well as yourself in seeking 
amusement, the chances are greatly in your favour that you will 
not reach the little bureau at the gate without encountering some 
friend or friends whom you may induce to promener their idleness 
the same way. 

I often marvel, as I look aroun^ "me in our walks and drives, 
where all the sorrow and suffering which we know to be the lot 
of man contrives to hide itself at Paris. Everywhere else you 
see people looking anxious and busy at least, if not quite wo-be- 
gone arid utterly miserable : but here the glance of every eye is 
a gay one ; and even though this may perhaps be only worn in the 
sunshine, and put on just as other people put on their hats and 
bonnets, the effect is delightfully cheering to the spirits of a 
wandering stranger. 

It was we, I think, who set the example of an annual public 
exhibition by a horticultural society. It has been followed here, 
but not as yet upon the same splendid scale as in London and its 
neighbourhood. The Orangery of the Louvre is the scene of this 
display, which is employed for the purpose as soon as the royal 
trees that pass their winters in it are taken out to the Gardens of 
the Tuileries. I cannot on any occasion remember having been 
exposed to so oppressive a degree of heat as on the morning that 
we visited this exhibition. The sun shone with intolerable splen- 



383 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

dour upon the long range of windows, and the place was so full 
of company, that it was with the greatest difficulty we crept on 
an inch at a time from one extremity of the hall to the other. 
Some of the African plants were very fine ; but in general the 
show was certainly not very magnificent. I suspect that the ex- 
treme heat of the apartment had considerably destroyed the 
beauty of some of the more delicate flowering plants, for there 
were scarcely any of the frail blossoms of our hothouse treasures 
in perfection. The collection of geraniums was, compared to 
those I have seen in England, very poor, and with so little either 
of novelty or splendour about them, that I suspect the cultivation 
of this lovely race, and the production of a new variety in it, is 
not a matter of so great interest in France as in England. 

The climate of France is perhaps more congenial to delicate 
flowers than our own ; and yet it appears to me that, with some 
few exceptions, such as oranges and the laurier-rose, I have seen 
nothing in Paris this year equal to the specimens found at the 
firstrate florists' round London. Even in the decoration of rooms, 
though flowers are often abundant here, they are certainly less 
choice than with us ; and, excepting in one or two instances, I 
have observed no plants whatever forced into premature bloom to 
gratify the pampered taste of the town amateur. I do not, how- 
ever, mention this as a defect ; on the contrary, I perfectly agree 
in the truth of Rousseau's observation, that such impatient sci- 
ence by no means increases the sum of the year's enjoyment. 
" Ce n'est pas parer I'hiver," he says, — " c'est deparer le prin- 
temps :" and the truth of this is obvious, not only in the indiffer- 
ence with which those who are accustomed to receive this unnat- 
ural and precocious produce welcome the abounding treasures of 
that real spring-time which comes when it pleases Heaven to send 
it, but also in the worthless weakness of the untimely product itself. 
I certainly know many who appear to gaze with ecstasy on tlie 
pale, hectic-looking bloom of a frail rose-tree in the month of Feb- 
ruary, who can walk unmoved in the spicy evenings of June amid 
thousands of rich blossoms, all opening their bright bosoms to the 
breeze in the sweet healthy freshness of unforced nature : yet I 
will not assert that this proceeds from afi'ectation — indeed, I ver- 
ily believe that fine ladies do in all sincerity think that roses at 
Christmas are really much prettier and sweeter things than roses 
in June ; but, at least, I may confess that I think otherwise. 

Among the numerous company assembled to look at this display 
of exotics, was a figure perhaps the most remarkably absurd that 
we have yet seen in the grotesque extremity of his republican cos- 
tume. We watched him for some time with considerable interest 
— and the more so, as we perceived that he was an object of cu- 
riosity to many besides ourselves. In truth, his pointed hat and 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 383 

enormous lapels out-Heroded Herod; and I presume the attention 
lie excited was occasioned more by the extravagant excess than 
the unusual style of his costume. A gentleman who was with us 
at the Orangery told me an anecdote respecting a part of this sort 
of symbolic attire, which had become, he said, the foundation of a 
vaudeville, but which nevertheless was the record of a circum- 
stance that actually occurred at Paris. 

A young provincial happened to arrive in the capital just at the 
time when these hieroglyphic habiliments were first brought into 
use, and, having occasion for a new hat, repaired to the magasin 
of a noted chapelier, where every thing of the newest invention 
was sure to be found. The young man, alike innocent of politics 
and ignorant of its symbols, selected a hat as high and as pointed 
as that of the toughest roundhead at the court of Cromwell, and 
sallied forth, proud of being one of the first in a new fashion, to 
visit a young relative who was en pension at an establishment 
rather celebrated for its freely-proclaimed Carlist propensities. 
His young cousin, he was told, was enjoying the hour of recrea- 
tion with his schoolfellows in the play-ground behind the mansion. 
He desired to be led to him ; and was accordingly shown the way 
to the spot, where about fifty young legitimatists were assembled. 
No sooner, however, had he and his hat obtained the entree to this 
enclosure, than the most violent and hideous yell was heard to 
issue from every part of it. 

At first the simple-minded provincial smiled, from believing that 
this uproar, wild as it was, might be intended to express a juve- 
nile welcome ; and having descried his young kinsman on the op- 
posite side of the enclosure, he walked boldly forward to reach 
him. But, before he had proceeded half a dozen steps, he was as- 
sailed on all sides by pebbles, tops, flying hoops, and well-directed 
handfuls of mud. Startled, astounded, and totally unable to com- 
prehend the motives for so violent an assault, he paused for a 
moment, uncertain whether to advance boldly, or shelter himself 
by flight from an attack which seemed every moment to increase 
in violence. Ere he had well decided what course to pursue, his 
bold-hearted little relative rushed up to him, screaming, as loud as 
his young voice would allow — " Run, cousin, run. Get rid of that 
beast of a hat ! . . . 'Tis the hat, the detestable hat !" 

The young man again stopped short, in the hope of being able 
to comprehend the vociferations of his little friend ; but the hostile 
missives rang about his ears with such eff'ect, that he suddenly came 
to the decision at which FalstafF arrived before him, and feeling 
that, at least on the present occasion, discretion was the better part 
of valour, he turned round, and made his escape as speedily as 
possible, muttering, however, as he went, " What the plague is the 
matter with the hat, then, to make such an infernal racket about 1" 



384 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Having made good his retreat, he repaired without delay to the 
hatter of whom he had purchased this offensive article, described 
the scene he had passed through, and requested an explanation 
of it. 

" Merely that it is a republican hat," replied the unoffending 
tradesman ; adding, that if he had known monsieur's principles 
were not in accordance with a high crown, he would most certain- 
ly have pointed out the possible inconvenience of wearing one. 
As he spoke, he uncovered and displayed to view one of those del- 
icate light-coloured hats which are known at Paris to speak the 
loyal principles of the wearer. 

" This hat," said he, gracefully presenting it, " may be safely 
worn by monsieur, even if he chose to take his seat in the extre- 
mest corner of the cote droite." 

Once more the inexperienced youth walked forth : and this time 
he directed his steps towards the stupendous plaster elephant on 
the Place de la Bastile, now and ever the favourite object of coun- 
try curiosity. He had taken correct instructions for his route, and 
proceeded securely by the gay succession of Boulevards towards 
the spot he sought. For some time he pursued his pleasant walk 
without any adventure or interruption whatever ; but as he ap- 
proached the region of the Porte St, Martin, sundry little sifflemens 
became audible, and, ere he had half traversed the Boulevard du 
Temple, he became fully convinced that whatever fate might have 
awaited his new, new hat at the pensionnat of his little cousin, both 
he and it ran great risk of being rolled in the mud which stagna- 
ted in sullen darkness near the spot where once stood the awful 
Temple. 

No sooner did he discover that the covering of his unlucky head 
was again obnoxious, than he hastened once more to the treacher- 
ous hatter, as he now fully believed him to be, and in no measured 
tone expressed his indignation at a line of conduct which had thus 
twice exposed the tranquillity — nay, perhaps the life of an unof- 
fending individual;, to the fury of the mob. The worthy hatter 
with all possible respect and civility repelled the charge, declaring 
that his only wish and intention was to accommodate every gen- 
tleman who did him the honour to enter his magasin with exactly 
that species of hat which might best accord with his taste and prin- 
ciples. "If, however," he added, with a modest bow, "monsieur 
really intended to condescend so far as to ask his advice as to 
which species of hat it was best and safest to wear at the present 
time in Paris, he should beyond the slightest shadow of doubt re- 
spectfully recommend the juste-milieu.^'' The young provincial 
followed his advice ; and the moral of the story is, that he walked 
in peace and quietness through the streets of Paris as long as he 
stayed. 



PARIS AND THK PARISIANS. 385 

On our way home this morning we met a most magnificent 
funeral array ; I reckoned twenty carriages, but the pistons were 
beyond counting. I forget the name of the individual, but it was 
some one who had made himself very popular among the people. 
There was not, however, the least appearance of riot or confu- 
sion ; nor were there any military to protect the procession, — a 
dignity which is always accorded by this thoughtful government to 
every person whose funeral is likely to be honoured by too great 
a demonstration of popular affection. Every man as it passed 
took off his hat ; but this they would have done had no cortege 
accompanied the hearse, for no one ever meets a funeral in 
France without it. 

But though every thing had so peaceful an air, we still felt dis- 
posed to avoid the crowd, and to effect this, turned from the quay 
down a street that led to the Palais Royal. Here there was no 
pavement; and the improved cleanliness of Paris, which I had 
admitted an hour before to a native who had remarked upon it, 
iiow appeared so questionable to some of my party, that I was 
challenged to describe what it had been before this improvement 
took place. But notwithstanding this want of faith, which was 
perhaps natural enough in the Rue des Bons Enfans, into which 
we had blundered, it is nevertheless a positive fact, that Paris is 
greatly improved in this respect ; and if the next seven years do 
as much towards its purification as the last have done, we may 
reasonably hope that in process of time it will be possible to 
drive — nay, even walk through its crowded streets, without the aid 
either of aromatic vinegar or eau de Cologne. Much, however, 
still remains to be done ; and done it undoubtedly will be, from 
one end of the " belle ville'^ to the other, if no barricades arise to 
interfere with the purifying process. But English noses must 
still have a little patience. 



LETTER LXXL 

Minor French Novelists. 

It is not long since, in writing to you of modern French works 
of imagination, I avowed my great and irresistible admiration for 
the high talent manifested in some of the writings published under 
the signature of George Sand ; and I remember that the observa- 
tions I ventured to make respecting them swelled into such length 
as to prevent my then uttering the protest which all Christian 

Bb 



386 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

souls are called upon to make against the ordinary productions of 
the minor French story-tellers of the day. I must therefore now 
make this amende to the cause of morality and truth, and declare 
to you, with all sincerity, that I believe nothing can be more con- 
temptible, yet at the same time more deeply dangerous to the 
cause of virtue, than the productions of this unprincipled class of 
writers. 

While conversing a short time ago on the subject of these 
noxious ephemera with a gentleman whose professional occupa- 
tions of necessity bring him into occasional contact with them, he 
struck off for my edification a sketch which he assured me might 
stand as a portrait, with wonderfully little variation, for any indi- 
vidual of the fraternity. It may lose something of its raciness by 
the processes of recollecting and translating ; but I jSatter myself 
that I shall be able to preserve enough of the likeness to justify 
my giving it to you. 

" These authors," said their lively historian, " swarm au sixieme 
in every quarter of Paris. For the most part, they are either idle 
scholars who, having taken an aversion to the vulgar drudgery of 
education, determine upon finding a short cut to the temple of 
Fame ; or else they are young artisans — journeymen workers at 
some craft or other, which brings them in just francs enough to 
sustain an honest decent existence, but wholly insufficient to min- 
ister to the sublime necessities . of revolutionary ambition. As 
perfect a sympathy appears to exist in the politics of all these 
gentry as in their doctrine of morals ; they all hold themselves 
ready for rebellion at the first convenient opportunity — be it 
against Louis, Charles, Henri, or Philippe, it is all one ; rebell- 
ion against constituted and recognised authority being, according 
to their high-minded code, their first duty, as well as their dearest 
recreation. 

*' They must wait, however, till the fitting moment come ; and, 
meanwhile, how may they better the condition in which the tyr- 
anny of kings and law-makers has placed them ? Shall they listen 
to the inward whisperings which tell them, that, being utterly un- 
fitted to do their duty in that state of life to which it has pleased 
God to call them, they must of necessity and by the inevitable 
nature of things be fitted for some other ? . . . What may it be ? 
. . . Treason and rapine, of course, if time be ripe for it — but en 
attendarit . . . 

" To trace on an immortal page the burning thoughts that mar 
their handicraft .... to teach the world what fools the sages who 
have lived, and spoken, and gone to rest, would make of them . . . 
to cause the voice of passion to be heard high above that of law 
or of gospel . . . Yes ... it is thus they will at once beguile the 
tedious hours that must precede another revolution, and earn by 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 387 

the noble labours of genius the luxuries denied to grovelling in- 
dustry. 

" This sublime occupation once decided on, it follows as a neces- 
sary result that they must begin by awakening all those tender 
sympathies of nature, which are to the imagination what oil is to 
the lamp. A favourite grisette is fixed upon, and invited to share 
the glory, the cabbage, the inspiration, and the garret of the ex- 
alted journeyman or truant scholar. It is said that the whole of 
this class of authors are supposed to place particular faith in that 
tinsel sentiment, so prettily and poetically untrue, — 

" ' Love, light as air, at sight of human ties, 

Spreads his bright wings, and in a moment flies ;' 

and the inspired young man gently insinuates his unfettered ideas 
on the subject to the chosen fair one, who, if her acquaintance 
has lain much among these ' fully-developed intelligences,' is 
not unfrequently found to be as sublime in her notions of such 
subjects as himself; so the interesting little menage is monte on 
the immortal basis of freedom. 

" Then comes the literary labour, and its monstrous birth — a vol- 
ume of tales, glowing with love and murder, blasphemy and 
treason, or downright obscenity, affecting to clothe itself in the 
playful drapery of wit. It is not difficult to find a publisher who 
knows where to meet with young customers ever ready to barter 
their last sous for such commodities, and the bargain is made. 

" At the actual sight and at the actual touch of the unhoped-for 
sum of three hundred francs, the flood of inspiration rises higher 
still. More hideous love and bloodier murders, more phrensied 
blasphemy and deadlier treason, follow ; and thus the fair me- 
tropolis of France is furnished with intellectual food for the cra- 
ving appetites of the most useful and productive part of its popu- 
lation. 

" Can we wonder that the Morgue is seldom untenanted ? . . . . 
or that the tender hand of affection is so often seen to pillow its 
loved victim where the fumes of charcoal shall soon extinguish a 
life too precious to be prolonged in a world where laws still exist, 
and where man must live, and woman too, by the sweat of their 
brows ?" 

It was some time after the conversation in which I received 
this sketch, that 1 fell into company with an Englishman who en- 
joys the reputation of high cultivation and considerable talent, and 
who certainly is not without that species of power in conversation 
which is produced by the belief that hyperbole is the soul of elo- 
quence, and the stout defence of a paradox the highest proof of 
intellectual strength. 

To say I conversed with this gifted individual would hardly 

Bb2 



388 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

be correct ; but I listened to him, and gained thereby additional 
confirmation of a fact which I had repeatedly heard insisted on 
in Paris, that admiration for the present French school of decousu 
writing is manifested by critics of a higher class in England than 
could be found to tolerate it in France. 

" Have you read the works of the young men of France ?" was 
the comprehensive question by which this gentleman opened the 
floodgates of the eloquence which was intended to prove, that 
without having studied well the bold and sublime compositions 
which have been put forth by this class, no one had a right la 
form a judgment of the existing state of human intelligence. 

For myself, I confess that my reading in this Ime, though 
greatly beyond what was agreeable to my taste, has never ap- 
proached anything that deserved the name of study; and, in- 
deed, I should as soon have thought of forming an estimate of the 
" existing state of human intelligence" from the height to which 
the boys of Paris made their kites mount from the top of Mont- 
martre, as from the compositions to which he alluded : but, 
nevertheless, I listened to him very attentively ; and I only wish 
that my memory would serve me, that I might repeat to you all 
the fine things he said in praise of a multitude of authors, of 
whom, however, it is more than probable you never heard, and of 
works that it is hardly possible you should have ever seen. 

It would be difficult to give you any just idea of the energy and 
enthusiasm which he manifested on this subject. His eyes almost 
started from his head, and the blood rushed over his face and 
temples, when one of the party hinted that the taste in which 
most of these works were composed was not of the most classic 
elegance, nor their apparent object any very high degree of moral 
utiHty. 

It is a well-known fact, that people are seldom angry when they 
are quite in the right ; and I believe it is equally rare to see such 
an extremity of vehemence as this individual displayed in assert- 
ing the high intellectual claims of his favourites, exhibited on any 
question where reason and truth are on the side espoused by the 
speaker. I never saw the veins of the forehead swell in an 
attempt to prove that " Hamlet" was a fine tragedy, or that 
" Ivanhoe" was a fine romance ; but on this occasion most of the 
company shrank into silence before the impassioned pleadings 
of this advocate for ... . modern French historiettes. 
I In the course of the discussion many young names were cited ;. 
and when a few very palpable hits were made to tell on the literary 
reputations of some among them, the critic seemed suddenly deter- 
mined to shake off all slighter skirmishing, and to defend the 
broad battle-field of the cause under the distinguished banner of 
M. Balzac hinaself. And here, I confess, he had most decidedly 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS, 

the advantage of me ; for my acquaintance with the writings of 
this gentleman was exceedingly slight and superficial, — whereas 
he appeared to have studied every line he has ever written, with a 
feeling of reverence that seemed almost to bear a character of 
religious devotion. Among many of his works whose names he 
cited with enthusiasm, that entitled " La Peau de Chagrin" was 
the one which evidently raised his spirit to the most exalted 
pitch. It is difficult to imagine admiration and delight expressed 
more forcibly ; and as I had never read a single line of this 
*' Peau de Chagrin," my preconceived notions of the merit of M. 
Balzac's compositions really gave way before his enthusiasm ; and 
I not only made a silent resolution to peruse this incomparable 
work with as little delay as possible, but I do assure you that I 
really and truly expected to find in it some very striking traits of 
genius, and a perfection of natural feeling and deep pathos which 
could not fail to give me pleasure, whatever I might think of the 
tone of its principles, or the correctness of its moral tendency. 

Early, then, on the following morning, I sent for " La Peau de 
Chagrin." ... I have not the slightest wish or intention of enter- 
ing into a critical examination of its merits ; it would be hardly 
possible, I think, to occupy time more unprofitably: but as every 
author makes use of his preface to speak in his own person, 
whatever one finds written there assuming the form of a literary 
■dictum may be quoted with propriety as furnishing the best and 
fairest testimony of his opinions, and I will therefore take the 
liberty of transcribing a few short sentences from the preface of 
M. Balzac, for the purpose of directing your attention to the 
theory upon which it is his intention to raise his literary repu- 
tation. 

The preface to " La Peau de Chagrin" appears to be written 
chiefly for the purpose of excusing the licentiousness of a former 
work, entitled " La Physiologic du Mariage." In speaking of this 
work, he says, frankly enough certainly, that it was written as 
*' an attempt to restore the graceful, gay, lively, and sparkling 
literature of the eighteenth century, when authors did not make 
it a point of conscience to be always strictly correct and formal 
, , . The author of this work aims to assist the literary reaction 
which many able and ingenious writers are endeavouring to bring 
about .... He has no faith in the hypocrisy and prudery of our 
modern manners, and denies, moreover, to those who are sated 
with indulgence, the right of being fastidious as regards others.'^ 

This is telling his readers fairly enough what they have to 
«xpect ; and if after this they will persist in plunging headlong 
into the mud which nearly a century of constantly-increasing 
refinement has gone far to drag us out of . . . why they must. 

As another reason why his pen has done , . . what it has done, 



390 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

M. Balzac tells us that it is absolutely necessary to have some- 
thing in a genre unlike any thing that the public has lately been 
familiar with. He says that the reading world (which is in fact 
all the world) " is wearied now-a-days" ... of a great many 
different styles of composition which he enumerates, summing 
up all with ..." and the history of France, done up after the 
manner of Walter Scott .... What, then, is left for us," he con- 
tinues, " if the public condemn the efforts of those writers who 
are endeavouring to bring back the fresh and unsophisticated 
literature of our ancestors ?" 

As another specimen of the theories of these new immortals, 
let me also quote the following sentence : — " If Polyeucte were 
not in existence, there is more than one living poet capable of 
producing what Corneille has produced." 

Again, as a reason for going back to the tone of literature 
which he has chosen, he says, — " Authors are very often right 
enough in their tirades against the present day. The world 
demands from us beautiful pictures — where are we to find our 
models ? Your ungraceful costumes — your revolutions that do 
not succeed — your illiterate declaimers — your lifeless religion — 
your kings on half pay — are all these things so poetical in their 
nature as to be worthy of illustration ? All that we can do is to 
turn thena into ridicule ; satire is the exclusive literature of worn- 
out nations." 

M. Balzac concludes this curious essay on modern literature 
thus : " In short, the march of mind is so rapid — the intellectual 
existence wears itself out so fast, that several new ideas have 
grown old even while the work was going through the press." 

This last phrase is admirable, and gives the best and clearest 
idea of the notions of the school on the subject of composition 
that I have anywhere met with. Imagine Shakspeare and Spen- 
ser, Swift and Pope, Voltaire and Rousseau, publishing a work 
wath a similar prefatory apology ! . . . But M. Balzac is quite 
right. The ideas that are generated to-day will be old to-morrow, 
and dead and buried the day after. I should indeed be truly 
sorry to differ from him on this point ; for herein lies the only 
consolation that the wisdom of man can suggest for the heavy 
calamity of witnessing the unprecedented perversion of the 
human understanding which marks the present hour. It will 
NOT LAST : Common Sense will reclaim her rights, and our 
children will learn to laugh at these spasmodic efforts to be great 
and original as cordially as Cervantes did at the chronicles of 
knight-errantry which turned his hero's brain. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 391 



LETTER LXXII. 

Breaking up of the Paris season — Soiree at Madame Recamier's — Recitation — Storm — 
Disappointment — Atonement — Farewell. 

My letters from Paris, my dear friend, must now be brought to 
a close — and perhaps you will say that it is high time it should be 
so. The summer sun has in truth got so high into the heavens, 
that its perpendicular beams are beginning to make all the gay 
folks in Paris fret — or, at any rate, run away. Everybody we 
see is preparing to be off in some direction or other, — some to the 
sea, some to philosophize under the shadow of their own vines, 
and some, happier than all the rest, to visit the enchanting water- 
ing-places of lovely Germany. 

We too have at length fixed the day for our departure, and this 
is positively the last letter you will receive from me dated from 
the beauteous capital of the Great Nation. It is lucky for our 
sensibilities, or for our love of pleasure, or for any other feeling 
tliat goes to make up the disagreeable emotion usually produced 
by saying farewell to scenes where we have been very happy, 
that the majority of those whose soci-etymade them delightful are 
going to say farewell to them likewise: leaving Paris a month 
ago would have been a much more dismal business to us than 
leaving it now. 

Our last soiree has been passed at the Abbaye-aux-Bois ; and 
often as I have taken you there already, I must describe this last 
evening, because the manner in which we passed it was more 
essentially un-English than any other. 

About ten days before this our farewell visit, we met, at one 
of Madame Recamier's delightful reception-nights, a M. Lafond, 
a tragic actor of su-ch distinguished merit, that even in the days 
of Talma he contrived, as I understand, to obtain a high reputa- 
tion in Paris, though I do not beheve his name is much known to 
MS ; — in fact, the fame of Talma so completely overshadowed 
every other in his own walk, that few actors of his day were 
remembered in England when the subject of the French drama 
was on the tapis. 

On the evening when we met this gentleman at the Abbaye- 
aux-Bois, he was prevailed upon by our charming hostess (to 
whom I suspect that nobody can be found tough enough to pro- 
nounce a refusal of any thing she asks) to recite a very spirited 
address from the pen of Casimir Delavigne to the people of Rouen, 
svMch M. Lafond had publicly spoken in the theatre of that 



392 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

city when the statue of Racine, who was native to it, was erected 
there. 

The verses are good, full of fervour, spirit, and true poetical 
feeling, and the manner in which they were spoken by M. Lafond 
gave them their full effect. The whole scene was, indeed, stri- 
king and beautiful, A circle of elegant women, — among whom, 
by-the-way, was a niece of Napoleon, — surrounded the performer : 
tlie gentlemen were stationed in groups behind them ; while the 
inspired figure of Gerard's Corinne, strongly brought forward from 
the rest of the picture by a very skilful arrangement of lamps 
concealed from the eye of the spectator, really looked like the 
Genius of Poetry standing apart in her own proper atmosphere of 
golden light to hsten to the honours rendered to one of her favourite 
sons, 

I was greatly delighted ; and Madame Recamier, who perceived 
the pleasure which this recitation gave me, proposed to me that I 
should come to her on a future evening to hear M. Lafond read a 
play of Racine's. 

No proposition could have been more agreeable to us all. The 
party was immediately arranged ; M, Lafond promised to be 
punctually there at the hour named, and we returned home well 
pleased to think that the last soiree we should pass in Paris would 
be occupied so delightfully. 

Last night was the time fixed for this engagement. The morn- 
ing was fair, but there was no movement in the air, and the heat 
was intense. As the day advanced, thick clouds came to shelter us 
from the sun while we set forth to make some of our last farewell 
calls ; but they brought no coolness with them, and their gloomy 
shade afforded little relief from the heavy heat that oppressed us : 
on the contrary, the sultry weight of the atmosphere seemed to 
increase every moment, and we were soon driven home by the 
ominous blackness which appeared to rest on every object, giving 
very intelligible notice of a violent summer-storm. 

It was not, however, till late in the evening that the full fury 
of this threatened deluge fell upon Paris ; but about nine o'clock 
it really seemed as if an ocean had broken through the dark can- 
opy above us, so violent were the torrents of rain which then fell 
in one vast waterspout upon her roofs. 

We listened to the rushing sound with very considerable unea- 
siness, for our anxious thoughts were fixed upon our promised 
visit to the Abbaye-aux-Bois ; and we immediately gave orders 
that the porter's scout — a sturdy little personage, well known to 
be good at need — should be despatched without a moment's delay 
for a fiacre : and you never, I am sure, saw a more blank set of 
faces than those exhibited in our drawing-room when the tidings 
reached us that not a single voiture could be found ! 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 393 

After a moment's consultation, it was decided that the expe- 
rienced porter himself should be humbly requested to run the risk 
of being drowned in one direction, while his attendant satellite 
again dared the same fate in another. This prompt and spirited 
decision produced at length the desired effect ; and after another 
feverish half-hour of expectation, we had the inexpressible delight 
of finding ourselves safely enveloped in cloaks, which rendered it 
highly probable we might be able to step from the vehicle with- 
out getting wet to the skin, and deposited in the corners of one 
of those curiously-contrived swinging machines, whose motion is 
such that nothing but long practice or the most vigilant care can 
enable you to endure it without losing your balance, and running a 
very dangerous tilt against the head of your opposite neighbour 
with your own. 

I never quitted the shelter of a roof in so unmerciful a night. 
The rain battered the top of our vehicle as if enraged at the op- 
position it presented to its impetuous descent upon the earth. 
The thunder roared loud above the rattling and creaking of all the 
crazy wheels we met, as well as the ceaseless grinding of those 
which carried us ; and the lightning flashed with such rapidity 
and brightness, that the very mud we dashed through seemed 
illuminated. 

The effect of this storm, as we passed the Pont Neuf, was 
really beautiful. One instant our eyes looked out upon the thick- 
est darkness ; and the next, the old towers of Notre Dame, the 
pointed roofs of the Palais de Justice, and the fine bold elevation 
of St. Jacques, were " instant seen and instant gone." One bright 
blue flash fell full, as we dashed by it, on the noble figure of Henri 
Quatre, and the statua gentilissima, horse and all, looked as ghastly 
and as spectre-like as heart could wish. 

At length we reached the lofty iron grille of the venerable Ab- 
baye. The ample court was filled with carriages : we felt that 
we were late, and, hastening up the spacious stairs, in a moment 
found ourselves in a region as different as possible from that we 
had left. Instead of darkness, we were surrounded by a flood of 
light ; rain and the howling blast were exchanged for smiles and 
gentle greetings ; and the growling thunder of the storm, for the 
sweet voice of Madame Recamier, which told us, however, that 
M. Lafond was not yet arrived. 

As the party expected was a large one, it was Miss C 's 

noble saloon that received us. It was already nearly full, but its 
stately monastic doors still continued to open from time to time 
for the reception of new arrivals — yet still M. Lafond came not. 

At length, when disappointment was beginning to take place of 
expectation, a note arrived from the tragedian to Madame Reca- 
mier, stating thai the deluge of rain which had fallen rendered the 



394 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

Streets of Paris utterly impassable without a carriage, and the 
same cause made it absolutely impossible to procure one ; ergo, 
we could have no M. Lafond — no Racine. 

Such a contre-tems as this, however, is by no means very diffi- 
cult to bear at the Abbaye-aux-Bois. But Madame Recamier ap- 
peared very sorry for it, though nobody else did ; and admirable 
as M. Lafond's reading is known to be, I am persuaded that the 
idea of her being vexed by his failing to appear caused infinitely 
more regret to every one present than the loss of a dozen tragedies 
could have done. And then it was that the spirit of genuine 
French amahiliU shone forth ; and in order to chase whatever was 
disagreeable in this change in the destination of our evening's oc- 
cupations, one of the gentlemen present most good-humouredly 
consented to recite some verses of his own, which, both from their 
own merit, and from the graceful and amiable manner in which 
they were given, were well calculated to remove every shadow of 
dissatisfaction from all who heard them. 

This example was immediately followed in the same delightful 
spirit by another, who in like manner gave us more than one proof 
of his own poetic power, as well as of that charming national 
amenity of manner which knows so well how to round and poHsh 
every rough and jutting corner which untoward accidents may and 
must occasionally throw across the path of life. 

One of the pieces thus recited was an extremely pretty legend, 

called, if I mistake not, " Les Soeurs Crises," in which there is a 

sweet and touching description of a female character, made up of 

softness, goodness, and grac^. As this description fell trait by 

trait from the lips of the poet, many an eye turned involuntarily 

towards Madame Recamier ; and the Duchesse d'Abrantes, near 

whom I was sitting, making a slight movement of the hand in the 

same direction, said in a half whisper — 

" C'est bien elle !" 

« * * * * # ■ # 

On the whole, therefore, our disappointment was but lightly felt ; 
and when we rose to quit this delightful Abbaye-aux-Bois for the 
last time, all the regret of which we were conscious arose from 
recollecting how doubtful it was whether we should ever find our- 
selves within its venerable walls again. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 395 



POSTSCRIPT. 

The letters which are herewith presented to the public con- 
tain nothing beyond passing notices of such objects as chiefly at- 
tracted my attention during nine very agreeable weeks passed 
amid the care-killing amusements of Paris. I hardly know what 
they contain ; for though I have certainly been desirous of giving 
my correspondent, as far as I was able, some idea of Paris at the 
present day, I have been at least equally anxious to avoid every 
thing approaching to so presumptuous an attempt as it would have 
been to give a detailed history of all that was going on there du- 
ring the period of our stay. 

These letters, therefore, have been designedly as unconnected 
as possible : I have in this been decousu upon principle, and 
would rather have given a regular journal, after the manner of 
Lloyd's List, noting all the diligences which have come in and 
gone out of " la belle ville" during my stay there, than have at- 
tempted to analyze and define the many unintelligible incongrui- 
ties which appeared to me to mark the race and mark the time. 

But though I felt quite incapable of philosophically examining 
this copious subject, or, in fact, of going one inch beneath the sur- 
face while describing the outward aspect of all around me, I can- 
not but confiess that the very incongruity which I dared not pre- 
tend to analyze appeared to me by far the most remarkable feature 
in the present state of the country. 

There has, I know, always been something of this kind attribu- 
ted to the French character. Splendour and poverty — grace and 
grimace — delicacy and filth — learning and folly — science and fri- 
volity, have often been observed among them in a closeness of jux- 
taposition quite unexampled elsewhere ; but of late it has become 
infinitely more conspicuous — or rather, perhaps, this want of con- 
sistency has seemed to embrace objects of more importance than 
formerly. Heretofore, though it was often suspected in graver 
matters, it was openly demonstrated only on points which con- 
cerned the externals of society rather than the vital interests of the 
country ; but from the removal of that restraint which old laws, 
old customs, and old authority imposed upon the public acts of the 
people, the unsettled temper of mind which in time past showed 
itself only in what might, comparatively speaking, be called trifles, 
may in these latter days be traced without much difiiculty in af- 
fairs of much greater moment. 

No one of any party will now deny, I believe, that many things 



396 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

which by their very nature appear to be incompatible, have been 
lately seen to exist in Paris side by side, in a manner which cer- 
tainly resembled nothing that could be found elsewhere. 

As instances of this kind pressed upon me, I have sometimes 
felt as if I had got behind the scenes of a theatre, and that all 
sorts of materials, for all sorts of performances, were jumbled to- 
gether around me, that they might be ready at a moment's notice 
if called for. Here a crown — there a cap of liberty. On this 
peg, a mantle embroidered with fleurs-de-lis ; on that, a tri-col- 
oured flag. In one corner, all the paraphernalia necessary to deck 
out the pomp and pageantry of the Catholic church ; and in an- 
other, all the symbols that can be found which might enable them 
to show respect and honour to Jews, Turks, infidels, and heretics. 
In this department might be seen very noble preparations to sup- 
port a grand military spectacle ; and in that, all the prettiest pa- 
geants in the world, to typify eternal peace. 

I saw all these things, for it was impossible not to see them ; 
but as to the scene-shifters who were to prepare the different 
tableaux, I in truth knew nothing about them. Their trapdoors, 
wires, and other machinery were very wisely kept out of sight 
of such eyes as mine ; for had I known any thing of the matter, 
I should most assuredly have told it all, which would greatly tend 
to mar the effect of the next change of decorations. 

It was with this feeling, and in this spirit of purely superficial 
observation, that the foregoing letters were written ; but, ere I 
commit them to the press, I wish to add a few graver thoughts, 
which rest upon my mind as the result of all that I saw and heard 
while at Paris, connected as they now are with the eventful 
changes which have occurred in the short interval that has 
elapsed since I left it. 

" The country is in a state of transition,^'' is a phrase which I 
have often listened to, and often been disposed to laugh at, as a 
sort of oracular interpretation of paradoxes which, in truth, no one 
could understand : but the phrase may now be used without any 
Delphic obscurity. France was indeed in a state of transition 
exactly at the period of which I have been writing ; but this un- 
certain state is past ; nearly all the puzzling anomalies which so 
completely defied interpretation have disappeared ; and it may now 
be fairly permitted, to simple-minded travellers who pretend not 
to any conjuring skill, to guess a httle what she is about. 

I revisited France with that animating sensation of pleasure 
which arises from the hope of reviving old and agreeable impres- 
sions ; but this pleasure was nevertheless dashed with such feel- 
ings of regret as an English conservative may be supposed to feel 
for the popular violence which had banished from her throne its 
legitimate sovereign. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 397 

As an abstract question of right and wrong, my opinion of this 
act cannot change ; but the deed is done, — France has chosen to 
set aside the claim of the prince who by the law of hereditary 
succession has a right to the crown, in favour of another prince of 
the same royal line, whom in her policy she deems more capable 
of ensuring the prosperity of the country. The deed is done ; 
and the welfare of tens of millions who had, perhaps, no active 
share in bringing it about, now hangs upon the continuance of the 
tranquillity which has followed the change. 

However deep therefore may be the respect felt for those who, 
having sworn fealty to Charles the Tenth, continue steadfastly 
undeviating in their declaration of his right, and firm in their re- 
fusal to recognise that of any other, still a stranger and sojourner 
in the land may honestly acknowledge the belief that the pros- 
perity of France at the present hour depends upon her allegiance 
to the king she has chosen, without being accused of advocating 
the cause of revolution. 

.To judge fairly of France as she actually exists, it is abso- 
lutely necessary to throw aside all memory of the purer course she 
might have pursued five years ago, by the temperate pleading of 
her chartered rights, to obtain redress of such evils as really ex- 
isted. The popular clamour which rose and did the work of rev- 
olution, though it originated with factious demagogues and idle 
boys, left the new power it had set in action in the hands of men 
capable of redeeming the noble country they were called to gov- 
ern from the state of disjointed weakness in which they found it. 
The task has been one of almost unequalled difficulty and peril ; 
but every day gives greater confidence to the hope, that after forty 
years of blundering, blustering policy, and changes so multiplied 
as to render the «ery name of revolution ridiculous, this superb 
kingdom, so long our rival, and now, as we firmly trust, our most 
assured ally, will establish her government on a basis firm enough 
to strengthen the cause of social order and happiness throughout 
all Europe. 

The days, thank Heaven ! are past when Englishmen beheved 
it patriotic to deny their Gallic neighbours every faculty except 
those of making a bow and of eating a frog, while they were re- 
paid by all the weighty satire comprised in the two impressive 
words, John Bull. We now know each other better — we have 
had a long fight, and we shake hands across the water with all 
the mutual good-will and respect which is generated by a hard 
struggle, bravely sustained on both sides, and finally terminated 
by a hearty reconciliation. 

The position, the prospects, the prosperity of France are be- 
come a subject of the deepest interest to the English nation ; and 
it is therefore that the observations of any one who has been a 



398 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

recent looker-on there may have some value, even though they 
are professedly drawn from the surface only. But when did ever 
the surface of human affairs present an aspect so full of interest? 
Now that so many of the circumstances which have been alluded 
to above as puzzhng and incongruous have lately crowded upon 
each other, I feel aware that I have indeed been looking on upon 
the denouement of one of the most interesting political dramas 
that ever was enacted. The movements of King Philippe re- 
mind one of those by which a bold rider settles himself in the 
saddle when he has made up his mind for a rough ride, and is 
quite determined not to be thrown. When he first mounted, in- 
deed, he took his seat less firmly ; one groom held the stirrup, 
another the reins : he felt doubtful how far he should be likely to 
go — the weather looked cloudy — he might dismount directly .... 
But soon the sun burst from behind the cloud that threatened him : 
Now for it, then ! neck or nothing ! He orders his girths to be 
tightened, his curb to be well set, and the reins fairly and horse- 
manly to be put in his hands .... Now he is oS ! and may his 
ride be prosperous ! — for should he fall, it is impossible to guess 
how the dust which such a catastrophe might raise would settle 
itself. 

The interest which his situation excites is sufficiently awaken- 
ing, and produces a species of romantic feeling that may be 
compared to what the spectators experienced in the tournaments 
of old, when they sat quietly by to watch the result of a combat 
d outrance. But greater, far greater, is the interest produced by 
getting a near view of the wishes and hopes of the great people 
who have placed their destinies in his hands. 

Nothing that is going on in Paris — in the Chamber of Depu- 
ties, in the Chamber of Peers, or even in the Gkabinet of the King 
— could touch me so much, or give me half so much pleasure to 
listen to, as the tone in which I have heard some of the most dis- 
tinguished men in France speak of the repeated changes and 
revolutions in her government. 

It is not in one or two instances only that I have remarked this 
tone, — in fact, I might say that I have met it whenever I was in 
the society of those whose opinions especially deserved atten- 
tion. I hardly know, however, how to describe it, for it cannot be 
done by repeating isolated phrases and observations. I should say, 
that it marks distinctly a consciousness that such frequent changes 
are not creditable to any nation — that they feel half ashamed to 
talk of them gravely, yet more than half vexed to speak of the 
land they love with any thing approaching to lightness or con- 
tempt. That the men of whom I speak do love their country 
with a true, devoted, Roman-like attachment, I am quite sure ; 
and I do not remember to have ever felt the conviction that I was 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 399 

listening to real patriots so strongly as when I have heard them 
reason on the causes, deplore the effects, and deprecate the recur- 
rence of these direful and devastating convulsions. 

It is, if I mistake not, this noble feeling of wishing to preserve 
their country from the disgrace of any farther demonstrations of 
such frail inconstancy, which will tend to keep Louis Philippe 
on his throne as much, or even more, perhaps, than that newly- 
awakened energy in favour of the boutique and the bourse of 
which we hear so much. 

It is nowise surprising that this proud but virtuous sentiment 
should yet exist, notwithstanding all that has happened to check 
and to chill it. Frenchmen have still much of which they may 
justly boast. After a greater continuance of external war and 
internal commotion than perhaps any country was ever exposed 
to within the same space of time, France is in no degree behind 
the most favoured nations of Europe in any one of the advantages 
which have ever been considered as among the especial blessings 
of peace. Tremendous as have been her efforts and her struggles, 
the march of science has never faltered : the fine arts have been 
cherished with unremitting zeal and a most constant care, even 
while every citizen was a soldier; and now, in this breathing- 
time that Heaven has granted her, she presents a spectacle of 
hopeful industry, active improvement, and prosperous energy, 
which is unequalled, I believe, in any European country except 
our own. 

Can we wonder, then, that the nation is disposed to rally round 
a prince whom Fate seems to have given expressly as an anchor 
to keep her firm and steady through the heavy swell that the late 
storms have left ? Can we wonder that feelings, and even prin- 
ciples, are found to bend before an influence so salutary and so 
strong ? 

However irregular the manner in which he ascended the throne, 
Louis Philippe had himself hltle more to do with it than yielding 
to the voice of the triumphant party who called upon him to mount 
its troublesome pre-eminence ; and at the moment he did so, he 
might very fairly have exclaimed — 

" If chance -will have me king, why chance may crown me 
Without my stir." 

* * # # * # « 

Never certainly did any event brought on by tumult and con- 
fusion give such fair promise of producing eventually the reverse, 
as the accession of King Louis Philippe to the throne of France. 

The manner of this unexpected change itself, the scenes which 
led to it, and even the state of parties and of feelings which came 
afterward, all bore a character of unsettled confusion which 
threatened every species of misery to the country. 



400 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

When we look back upon this period, all the events which 
occurred during the course of it appear like the rough and ill- 
assorted fragments of worsted on the reverse of a piece of 
tapestry. INo one could guess, not even the agents in them, 
what the final result would be. But they were at work upon a 
design drawn by the all-powerful and unerring hand of Provi- 
dence ; and strange as the medley has appeared to us during the 
process, the whole, when completed, seems likely to produce an 
excellent effect. 

The incongruous elements, however, of which the chaos was 
composed from whence this new order of things was to arise, 
though daily and by slow degrees assuming shape and form, 
were still in a state of " most admired disorder" during our abode 
in Paris. It was impossible to guess whereunto all those things 
tended which were evidently in movement around us ; and the 
signs of the times were in many instances so contrary to each 
other, that nothing was left for those who came to view the land, 
but to gaze, to wonder, and to pass on, without attempting to 
reconcile contradictions so totally unintelligible. 

But, during the few weeks that have elapsed since I left 
the capital of France, this obscurity has been dispersed like a 
mist. It was the explosion of an infernal machine that scattered 
it ; but it is the light of heaven that now shines upon the land, 
making visible to the whole world on what foundation rest its 
hopes, and by what means they shall be brought to fruition. 

Never, perhaps, did even a successful attempt upon the life of 
an individual produce results so important as those likely to 
ensue from the failure of the atrocious plot against the King of 
the French and his sons. It has aroused the whole nation as a 
sleeping army is roused by the sound of a trumpet. The indif- 
ferent, the doubting — nay, even the adverse, are now bound 
together by one common feelirig : an assassin has raised his 
daring arm against France, and France in an instant assumes an 
attitude so firm, so bold, so steady, and so powerful, that all her 
enemies must quail before it. 

As for the wretched faction who sent forth this bloody agent 
to do their work, they stand now before the face of all men in the 
broad light of truth. High and noble natures may sometimes 
reason amiss, and may mistake the worse cause for the better ; 
but however deeply this may involve them in error, it will not 
lead them one inch towards crime. Such men have nothing in 
common with the republicans of 1835. 

From their earliest existence as a party, these republicans have 
avowed themselves the unrelenting enemies of all the powers that 
be : social order, and all that sustains it, is their abhorrence ; and 
neither honour, conscience, nor humanity has force sufficient to 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 401 

restrain them from the most hideous crimes when its destructiori 
is the object proposed. Honest men of all shades of political 
opinion must agree in considering this unbridled faction as the 
common enemies of the human race. In every struggle to sus- 
tain the laws which bind society together, their hand is against 
every man ; and the inevitable consequence must and will be* 
that every man's hand shall be against them. 

Deplorable, therefore, as were the consequences of the Fieschi 
plot in its partial murderous success, it is likely to prove in its 
ultimate result of the most important and lasting benefit to 
France. It has given union and strength to her councils, energy 
and boldness to her acts ; and if it be the will of Heaven that 
any thing shall stay the plague of insurrection and revolt which^ 
with infection more fearful than that of the Asiatic pest, has 
tainted the air of Europe with its poisonous breath, it is from 
France, where the evil first arose, that the antidote to it is most 
likely to come. 

It will be in vain that any republican clamour shall attempt to 
stigmatize the acts of the French legislature with the odium of an 
undue and tyrannical use of the power which it has been com- 
pelled to assume. The system upon which this legislature has 
bound itself to act is in its very nature incompatible with individ- 
ual power and individual ambition : its acts may be absoltlte'-*^ 
and high time is it that they should be so, — ^but the absolutism 
will not be that of an autocrat. 

The theory of the doctrinaire government is not so Well, or at 
least so generally, understood as it will be ; but every day is 
making it better known to Europe, — and whether the new princi- 
ples on which it is founded be approved or not, its power will be 
seen to rest upon them, and not upon the tyrannical will of any 
man or body of men whatever. 

It is not uncommon to hear persons declare that they under- 
stand no difference between the juste-milieu party and that of the 
doctrinaires; but they cannot have listened very attentively to 
the reasonings of either party. 

The juste-milieu party, if I understand them aright, consists of 
politicians whose principles are in exact conformity to the ex- 
pressive title they have chosen. They approve neither of a pure 
despotism nor of a pure democracy, but plead for a justly- 
balanced constitutional government, with a monarch at its head; 

The doctrinaires are much less definite in their specification of 
the form of government which they believe the circumstances of 
France to require. It might be thought, indeed, from some of- 
their speculations, that they were almost indifferent as to vvhal 
form the government should assume, or by what name it should 
be known to the world, provided always that it have within itself 

C c 



402 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

power and efficacy sufficient to adopt and carry into vigorous 
effect such measures as its chiefs shall deem most beneficial to 
the country for the time being. A government formed on these 
principles can pledge itself by no guarantee to any particular line 
of politics, and the country must rest contented in the belief that 
its interests shall be cared for by those who are placed in a situa- 
tion to control them. 

Upon these principles, it is evident that the circumstances in 
which the country is placed, internally and externally, must regu- 
late the policy of her cabinet, and not any abstract theory con- 
nected with the name assumed by her government. Thus despo- 
tism may be the offspring of a republic ; and liberty, the gift of a 
dynasty which has reigned for ages by right divine. 

M. de Carne, a political writer of much ability, in his essay on 
parties and " le mouvement actuel," ridicules in a spirit of keen 
satire the idea that any order of men in France at the present day 
should be supposed to interest themselves seriously for any 
abstract political opinion. 

" Does any one seriously believe," he asks, " in the absurdities 
of a constitutional mechanism ? In the multiplicity of checks 
and balances ? In the sacred inviolability of the directing 
thought, combined with the responsibility of money ?" 

And again he says, — " Do thinking men longer attach any im- 
portance, at this day, in regarding the moral and physical welfare 
of the human race, to the substitution of an American presidency 
for the monarchy of 1 830 ?" 

It is evident from the tone sustained through the whole of this 
ingenious essay, that it is the object of M. Carne to convince his 
readers of the equal and total futility of every political creed 
founded on any fixed and abstract principle. "Who is it," he 
asks, "that has established in France a despotism to which no 
parallel can be found without going back to the absolute monarchies 
of Asia ? Napoleon — who reigned, like the Cesars of Rome, in 
virtue of the sovereignty of the people. Who has established, 
after so many ineffectual efforts, a regulated and judicious liberty, 
and has so ingrafted it upon our national feelings and manners, 
that it cannot again be shaken ? The house of Bourbon has 
done this, reigning by right divine." 

It is certainly possible that this distaste for pledging themselves 
to any form or system of government, and the apparent readiness 
to accommodate their principles to the exigences of the hour, 
may be as much the result of weariness arising from all the rest- 
less experiments they have made, as from conviction that this 
loose mode of wearing a political colour, ready to drop it or 
change it, according to circumstances, is in reality the best con- 
dition in which a great nation can place itself. 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 403 

It can hardly be doubted that the French people have become 
as weary of changes and experiments as thek neighbours are of 
watching them. They have tried revolutions of every size and 
form till they are satiated, and their spirits are worn out and. ex- 
hausted by the labour of making new projects of laws, new 
charters, and new kings. It is, in truth, contrary to their nature 
to be kept so long at work. No people in the world, perhaps, 
have equal energy in springing forw^ard to answer some sudden 
call, whether it be to pull down a Bastile with Lafayette, to over- 
turn a throne with Robespierre, to overrun Europe with Napoleon, 
or to reorganize a monarchy with Louis Philippe. All these deeds 
could be done with enthusiasm, and therefore they were natural 
to Frenchmen. But that the mass of the people should for long 
years together check their gay spirits, and submit themselves, 
without the recompense of any striking stage effect, to prose over 
the thorny theories of untried governments, is quite impossible, — 
for such a state would be utterly hostile to the strongest propen- 
sities of the people. " Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop." 
It is for this reason that " la loi hourgeoise''' has been proclaimed ; 
which, being interpreted, certainly means the law of being con- 
tented to remain as they are, making themselves as rich and as 
comfortable as they possibly can, under the shelter of a king who 
has the will and the power to protect them. 

M. Carne truly says, — " The strongest argument that can be 
urged by royalty, in demanding the support and respect of the 
bourgeoisie, is that which the astrologer of Louis the Eleventh 
employed, as a protection against the dangerous caprices of his 
master : ' I shall die just three days before the death of your 
majesty.' " 

This quotation, though it sound not very courtier-like, may be 
uttered before Louis Philippe without offence : for it is impossi- 
ble, let one's previous political bias have been what it will, not to 
perceive in every act of his government a firm determination to 
support and sustain in honour and in safety the order of things 
which it has estabhshed, or to perish ; and the consequence of 
this straightforward policy is, that thousands and tens of thou- 
sands who at first acknowledged his rule only to escape from an- 
archy, now cling to it, not only as a present shelter, but as a 
powerful and sure defence against the return of the miserable 
vicissitudes to which they have been so long exposed. 

Among many obvious advantages which the comprehensive 
principles of the " doctrine" offered to France under the peculiar 
circumstances in which she was placed at the time it was first 
propagated, was, that it offered a common resting-place to all who 
were weary of revolutions, let them be of what party they would. 
This is well expressed by M Carne when he says, — " This party 

C c 2 



404 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

seems destined, by its vagueness and generality, to become the 
gathering-point of all those uncertain and doubtful minds that 
have sought to fathom the void of political science." 

There cannot, I think, be a happier phrase to describe the host 
who have bewildered themselves in the interminable mazes of a 
science so little understood by the multitude, than this of " intel- 
ligences divoyees qui out penetre le vide de Vidie politique^ For 
these, it is indeed a blessing to have found one common name 
(vague though it be) under which they may all shelter themselves, 
and, without the slightest reproach to the consistency of their 
patriotism, join heart and hand in support of a government which 
has so ably contrived to " draw golden opinions from all sorts of 
men." 

In turning over the pages of Hume's History in pursuit of a 
particular passage, I accidentally came upon his short and pithy 
sketch of the character and position of our Henry the Seventh. 
In many points it approaches very nearly to what might be said 
of Louis Philippe. 

" The personal character of the man was full of vigour, indus- 
try, and severity ; deliberate in all his projects, steady in every 
purpose, and attended with caution, as well as good fortune, ia 
each enterprise. He came to the throne after long and bloody 
civil wars. The nation was tired with discord and intestine con- 
vulsions, and willing to submit to usurpations and even injuries 
rather than plunge themselves anew into like miseries. The 
fruitless efforts made against him served always, as is usual, to 
confirm his authority." 

Such a passage as this, and some others with which I occa- 
sionally indulge myself from the records of the days that are 
gone, have in them a most consoling tendency. We are apt to 
believe that the scenes we are painfully beholding contain, amid 
the materials of which they are formed, elements of mischief niore 
terrible than ever before threatened the tranquilKty of mankind ; 
yet a little recollection, and a little confidence in the Providence 
so visible in every page of the world's history, may suffice to in 
spire us with better hopes for the future than some of our doubt- 
ing spirits have courage to anticipate. 

"The fruitless efforts made against" King Philippe "have 
served to confirm his authority," and have done the same good 
office to him that similar outrages did to our " princely Tudor" in 
the fourteenth century. The people were sick of " discord and 
intestine convulsions" in his days: so are they at the present 
time in France ; so will they be again, at no very distant period, 
in England. 

While congratulating the country I have so recently left, as I 
do most heartily, on the very essential improvements which have 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 405 

taken place since my departure, I feel as if I ought to apologize 
for some statements to be found in the preceding pages of these 
volumes, which, if made now, might fairly be challenged as untrue. 
But during the last few months, letters from France should have 
been both written and read post-haste, or the news they contained 
would not be of much worth. We left Paris towards the end of 
June, and before the end of July the whole moral condition of 
France had received a shock, and undergone a change which, 
though it does not falsify any of my statements, renders it neces- 
sary at least that the tense of many of them should be altered. 

Thus, when I say that an unbounded license in caricaturing 
prevails, and that the walls of the capital are scrawled over with 
grotesque representations of the sovereign, the errata should have 
— "for prevails, read did prevail ; for are, read were ;^^ and the 
like in many other instances. 

The task of declaring that such statements are no longer correct 
is, however, infinitely more agreeable than that of making them. 
The daring profligacy of all kinds which was exposed to the eyes 
and the understanding at Paris before the establishment of the 
laws, which have now taken the morals of the people under their 
protection, was fast sinking the country into the worst and coarsest 
species of barbarism ; and there is a sort of patriotism, not be- 
longing to the kingdom, but to the planet that gave one birth, 
which must be gratified by seeing a check given to what tended 
to lower human nature itself. 

As a matter of hope, and consolation too, under similar evils 
which beset us at home, there is much satisfaction to be derived 
from perceiving that, however inveterate the taint may appear 
which unchecked licentiousness has brought upon a land, there 
is power enough in the hands of a vigorous and efficient magis- 
tracy to stay its progress and wipe out the stain. A " Te D^m' 
for this cleansing law should be performed in every church in 
Christendom. 



There is something assuredly of more than common political 
interest in the present position of France, interesting to all 
Europe, but most especially interesting to us. The wildest de- 
mocracy has been advocated by her press, and even in her 
senate. The highest court of justice in the kingdom has not 
been held sufficiently sacred to prevent the utterance of opinions 
within it which, if acted upon, would have taken the sceptre from 
the hands of the king and placed it in those of the mob. Her 
journals have poured forth the most unbridled abuse, the most 
unmitigated execrations against the acts of the government, and 
almost against the persons of its agents. And what has been the 



406 PARIS AND THE PAPaSIANS. 

result of all this ? Steadily, tranquilly, firmly, and without a 
shadow of vacillation, has that government proceeded in perform- 
ing the duties intrusted to it by the country. It has done nothing 
hastily, nothing rashly, nothing weakly. On first receiving the 
perilous deposite of a nation's welfare, — at a moment, too, when a 
thousand dangers from within and without were threatening, — the 
most cautious and consummate wisdom was manifested, not only 
in what it did, but in what it did not do. Like a skilful general 
standing on the defensive, it remained still awhile, till the first 
headlong rush which was intended to dislodge it from its new 
position had passed by ; and when this was over, it contemplated 
well the ground, the force, and the resources placed under its 
command, before it stirred one step towards improving them. 

When I recollect all the nonsense I listened to in Paris previ- 
ous to the trial of the Lyons prisoners ; the prophecies that the 
king would not dare to persevere in it; the assurances from 
some that the populace would rise to rescue them, — from others, 
that the peers would refuse to sit in judgment, — and from more 
still, that if nothing of all this occurred in Paris, a counter-revo- 
lution would assuredly break out in the south ; — when I remem- 
ber all this, and compare it to the steady march of daily-increas- 
ing power which has marked every act of this singularly vigorous 
government from that period to the present, I feel it difficult to 
lanaent that, at this eventful epoch of the world's history, power 
should have fallen into hands so capable of using it wisely. 

Yet, with all this courage and boldness of decision, there has 
been nothing reckless, nothing like indifference to public opinion, 
in the acts of the French government. The ministers have uni- 
formly appeared willing to hear and to render reason respecting 
all the measures they have pursued ; and the king himself has 
never ceased to manifest the same temper of mind which, through 
all the vicissitudes of his remarkable life, has rendered him so 
universally popular. But it is quite clear that, whatever were, 
the circumstances which led to his being placed on the throne of 
France, Louis Philippe can never become the tool of a faction : I 
can well conceive him replying, to any accusation brought against 
him, in the gentle but dignified words of Athalie — - 

" Ce que j'ai fait, Abner, j'ai cru le devoir faire — 
Je ne prends point pour juge un peuple temeraire." 

And who is there, of all those whom nature, fortune, and educa- 
tion have placed, as it were, in inevitable opposition to him, but 
must be forced to acknowledge that he is right ? None, I truly 
believe, — save only that unfortunate, bewildered, puzzle-headed 
set of politicians, the republicans, who seem still to hang together 
chiefly because no other party will have any thing to say to them, 
and because they alone, of all the host of would-be lawgivers, 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 407 

dare not to seek for standing-room under ihe ample shelter of the 
doctrine, inasmuch as its motto is " Public Order," and the well- 
known gathering-word of their tribe is " Confusion and Misrule." 

There are still many persons, I believe, who, though nowise 
desirous themselves of seeing any farther change in the govern- 
ment of France, yet still anticipate that change must come, be- 
cause they consider it impossible that this restless party can long 
remain quiet. I have heard several who wish heartily well to 
the government of Louis Philippe express very gloomy forebo- 
dings on this subject. They say, that however beneficial the 
present order of things has been found for France, it is vain to 
hope it should long endure, contrary to the wish and will of so 
numerous a faction; especially as the present government is 
formed on the doctrine, that the protection of arts and industry, 
and the fostering of all the objects connected with that wealth and 
prosperity to which the restoration of peace has led, should be its 
first object ; whereas the republicans are ever ready to be up and 
doing in any cause that promises change and tumult, and will 
therefore be found, whenever a struggle shall arise, infinitely bet- 
ter prepared to fight it out than the peaceable and well-contented 
majority, of whom they are the declared enemies. 

I think, however, that such reasoners are altogether wrong : 
they leave out of their consideration one broad and palpable fact, 
which is, however, infinitely more important than any other, — 
namely, that a republic is a form of government completely at 
variance with the spirit of the French people. That it has been 
already tried and found to fail, is only one among many proofs that 
might easily be brought forward* to show this. That love of glory 
which all the world seems to agree in attributing to France as one 
of her most remarkable national characteristics, must ever pre- 
vent her placing the care of her dignity and her renown in the 
hands of a mob. It was in a moment of " drunken enthusiasm" 
that her first degrading revolution was brought about ; and deep 
as was the disgrace of it, no one can fairly say that the nation 
should be judged by the wild acts then perpetrated. Every thing 
that has since followed goes' to establish the conviction, that 
France cannot exist as a republic. 

There is a love of public splendour in their nature that seems 
as much born with them as their black eyes ; and they must 
have, as a centre to that splendour, a king and a court, round 
which they may move, and to which they may do homage in the 
face of Europe without fearing that their honour or their dignity 
can be compromised thereby. It has been said (by an English- 
man) that the present is the government of the bourgeoisie, and 
that Louis Philippe is " un roi bourgeois." His Bourbon blood, 
bowever, saves him from this jest ; and if by " the government 



408 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

of the bourgeoisie" is meant a cabinet composed of and sustained 
by the wealth of the country, as well as its talent and its nobility, 
there is nothing in the statement to shock either patrician pride 
or regal dignity. 

The splendid military pageant in which the French people fol- 
lowed the imperial knight-errant who led them as conquerors 
over half Europe, might well have sufficient charm to make so 
warlike a nation forget for a while all the blessings of peace, as 
well as the more enduring glory which advancing science and 
well-instructed industry might bring. But even had Napoleon 
not fallen, the delirium of this military fever could not have been 
much longer mistaken for national prosperity by such a country 
as France ; and, happily for her, it was not permitted to go on 
long enough to exhaust her strength so entirely as to prevent her 
repairing its effects, and starting with fresh vigour in a far nobler 
course. 

But even now, with objects and ambition so new and so widely 
different before their eyes, what is the period to which the mem- 
ory of the people turns with the greatest complacency ? ... Is it 
to the Convention, or to the Directory ? — Is it to their mimicry 
of Roman Consulships ? Alas ! for the classic young-headed 
republicans of France ! . . . they may not hope that their cher- 
ished vision can ever endure within the realm of St. Louis long 
enough to have its lictors' and its tribunes' robes definitely deci- 
ded on. 

No ! it is not to this s«rt of schoolboy mummery that Gallic 
fancies best love to return, — but to that portentous interval when the 
bright blaze of a magnificent meteor shone upon their iron chains^ 
and made them look like gold. If this be true — if it cannot be 
denied that the affections of the French people cling with more 
gratitude to the splendid despotism of Napoleon than to any other 
period of their history, is it to be greatly feared that they should 
turn from the substantial power and fame that now 

" Flames in the forehead of the morning sky" 

before their eyes, accompanied as they are by the brightest prom- 
ise of individual prosperity and wellbeing, in order to plunge 
themselves again into the mingled " blood and mire" with which 
their republic begrimed its altars ? 

Were there even no other assurance against such a deplorable' 
effort at national self-destruction than that which is furnished by 
the cutting ridicule so freely and so generally bestowed upon it, 
this alone, in a country where a laugh is so omnipotent, might 
suffice to reassure the spirits of the timid and the doubting. It 
has been said sturdily by a French interpreter of French feehngs, 
that " if the devil should come out of hell to fight, there would be 



PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 409 

a Frenchman to accept his challenge." I dare say this may be 
very true, provided said diable does not come to the combat 
equipped from the armory of Ridicule, — in which case the 
French champion would, I think, be as likely to run away as 
not : and for this reason, if for no other, I truly believe it to be 
impossible that any support should now be given in France to a 
party which has not only made itself supremely detestable by its 
atrocities, but supremely ridiculous by its absurdities. 

It is needless to recapitulate here observations already made^ 
They have been recorded lightly, however, and their effect upon 
the reader may not be so serious as that produced upon my own 
mind by the circumstances which drew them forth ; but it is cer- 
tain that, had not the terrible and most ferocious plot against the 
king's life given a character of horror to the acts of the republican 
party in France, I should be tempted to conclude my statement 
of all I have seen and heard of them by saying, that they had 
mixed too much of weakness and of folly in their literature, in 
their political acts, and in their general bearing and demeanour, 
to be ever again considered as a formidable enemy by the govern- 
ment. 

I was amused the other day by reading in an English newspa- 
per, or rather in an extract from an Irish one (The Dublin Jour* 
nal), a passage in a speech of Mr. Daniel O'Connell's to the " Dub- 
lin Trades' Union," the logic of which, allowing perhaps a little 
for the well-known peculiarities in the eloquence of the " Emerald 
Isle," reminded me strongly of some of the republican reasonings 
to which I have lately listened in Paris. 

" The House of Commons," says Mr. Daniel O'Connell, " will 
always be a pure and independent body, because we are under the 
lash of our masters, and we will be kicked out if we do not per-' 
form the duties imposed on us by the people." 

***** 

Triflkig as are the foregoing pages, and little as they may seem 
obxioxious to any very grave criticism, I am quite aware that they 
expose me to the reproach of having permitted myself to be 
wrought upon by the " wind of doctrineJ^ I will not deny the 
charge ; but I will say in defence of this " shadow of turning" (for 
it is in truth no more), that I return with the same steadfast be-* 
lief which I carried forth, in the necessity of a government for 
every country which should possess power and courage to resist 
at all times the voice of a wavering populace, while its cares were 
steadily directed to the promotion of the general welfare. 

As well might every voice on board a seventy-four be lifted to 
advise the captain how to manage her, as the judgment of all the 
working classes in a state be offered on questions concerning her 
government. 



410 PARIS AND THE PARISIANS. 

A self-regulating populace is a chimera, and a dire one. The 
French have discovered this already ; the Americans are begin- 
ning, as I hear, to feel some glimmerings of this important truth 
breaking in upon them ; and for our England, spite of all the trash 
upon this point that she has been pleased to speak and to hear, she 
is not a country likely to submit, if the struggle should come, to be 
torn to pieces by her own mob. 

Admirably, however, as this jury-mast of " the doctrine" ap- 
pears to answer in France, where the whirlwind and the storm had 
nearly made the brave vessel a wreck, it would be a heavy day for 
England were she to find herself compelled to have recourse to 
the same experiment for safety — for the need of it can never arise 
without being accompanied by a necessity for such increased se- 
verity of discipline as would be very distasteful to her. It is true, 
indeed, that her spars do creak and crack rather ominously just at 
present : nevertheless, it will require a tougher gale than any she . 
has yet had to encounter, before she will be tempted to throw over- 
board such a noble piece of heart of oak as her constitution, which 
does in truth tower above every other, and, " like the tall mast of 
some proud admiral," looks down upon those around, whether old 
or new, well-seasoned and durable, or only skilfully erected for the 
nonce, with a feeling of conscious superiority that she would be 
very sorry to give up. 

But whatever the actual position of England may be, it must be 
advantageous to her, as well as to every other country in Europe, 
that France should assume the attitude she has now taken. The 
cause of social order is a common cause throughout the civilized 
world, and whatever tends to promote it is a common blessing. 
Obvious as is this truth, its importance is not yet fully understood ; 
but the time must come when it will be — and then all the nations 
of the earth will be heard lo proclaim in chorus, that 

" Le pire des 6tats, c'est i'6tat pop"1^i'->i." 



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